


turn me in your arms

by skybone



Series: Holding the Sky [4]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Altered Mental States, Amputation, Angst, Angst and Feels, Drunkenness, F/F, Mental Health Issues, Not Canon Compliant, Relationship Issues, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-21
Updated: 2017-03-09
Packaged: 2018-09-10 18:53:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 127,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8928997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skybone/pseuds/skybone
Summary: What happens to Trev and Cassandra after the events of Trespasser.





	1. PROLOGUE: Halamshiral

**Author's Note:**

> Well. I seem to have written a novel. 
> 
> This story goes into uncharted territory, well beyond where canon takes us. I guess we'll see if it will hold up if another Dragon Age game is released in the future. It might; I've mostly focused on their relationship and adventures unrelated to larger political issues. But if it doesn't, well, then think of this as an AU that mostly fits the Dragon Age universe, with some excursions.
> 
> I've tagged it with quite a few content warnings, just in case, but mostly my descriptions are inferred rather than explicitly detailed.

_"Could one thing in this fucking world just stay fixed?"_

_It stopped them in their tracks. The Inquisitor did not lose her temper; not like that. And the mark, and the sound she had made when it flared..._

_"You all can fight amongst yourselves once I'm—once I'm back," said Trev then, calm again, and carried on._

_It was out in the open now, even as they all pretended that it was not._

*        *        *

Cassandra was down on the terrace she had claimed as her own territory, as far away from the courtiers of the Winter Palace as was possible to get without actually leaving. She had set an Inquisition soldier at the end nearest the stairs, to turn away anyone who wanted to speak with her. She sat on a bench, hands folded, and tried to focus her mind; she wanted to think without interruption. Instead she found herself praying, and stopping, and praying again.

She was not surprised that the soldier did not stop Leliana; there were few who would dare stand up to the Inquisition’s spymaster. Her friend settled beside her and quietly looked out over the valley. It was not an uncomfortable silence, but she knew that Leliana would break it.

"The Mark is flaring," said Leliana. "There was a—an attack—when the Council was meeting."

Cassandra set the muscles in her jaw. "She is under a great deal of pressure, and nothing is going well. It is hardly surprising that there would be physical manifestations of that."

"Cassandra," said Leliana gently. "It is more than that. She is dying, and she knows it."

"She is not dying," hissed Cassandra furiously, coming to her feet in a rush.

"The Mark is killing her."

"No!"

Leliana said nothing. Cassandra made a fierce, jerky movement, and caught herself and went very still. Eventually she sat again, put her head into her hands, and after a little said, "I know."

"Has she spoken to you about it?"

"No," said Cassandra.

"Then you must—"

"I have tried," said Cassandra bleakly, dropping her hands. She would not weep, but she knew that her eyes were red. "She refuses to speak about it."

Leliana sighed, and finally said, "She has the courage of a mabari. Except when it comes to causing you pain."

"What?"

"I think," said the spymaster, "that she is afraid. More for you than for herself. She is close to breaking with it. Talk to her."

*        *        *

"Trev," said Cassandra, coming into the room they shared. The Inquisitor was sitting on the edge of the bed. She had pulled her boots off, and her jacket, but nothing more. She had been staring out the windows toward the distant mountains. She looked around at Cassandra and mustered a smile.

Cassandra sat beside her and tugged her own boots off, then took Trev's unmarked hand and held it in both hers. "We must talk."

"What about?" said the Inquisitor with attempted levity. "Have Qunari spies infiltrated the kitchens now? Is the morning baking threatened?"

"About your Mark," said Cassandra, "and the pain it is causing you. Leliana told me what happened with your hand."

"I'm fine." Trev began to pull her hand away, but Cassandra would not let go.

"No," she said. "It is killing you."

Trev stopped trying to pull away, but her body was rigid. "It's not—"

"I know you are too honest to pretend to yourself," said Cassandra. "Why are you pretending to me?"

"I—" Trev stopped, and did not seem to be able to start again. She shut her eyes. Cassandra waited, her thumbs gently moving on the back of Trev’s hand. _I love you. Tell me_.

When it became evident that the Inquisitor would not or could not say more, Cassandra said slowly, finding her words, "You have given me more than I ever dreamed possible. The Maker blessed me when he led me to you." Her voice caught. "I cannot bear the thought of losing you, I would do anything to prevent it. But if I cannot—oh my love, I regret nothing, I would change nothing, save to keep you safe. You are the light in my life, and I will always stand with you, I will always hold fast to you. Always and forever, my love."

Later, when Trev had stopped weeping and simply lay in her lover's arms, drained and trembling, Cassandra ran fingers through her hair, over and over again, kissing the top of her head. "I'm sorry," said Trev faintly, into her collar.

"You have nothing to be sorry for," said Cassandra. Then she pulled away a little, catching Trev's face between her hands, looking at her. "Just... promise me. Promise me that you will not give up. We have survived so many unlikely things, between us; what is one more? Promise me that you will fight this, that you will always come back to me if you can."

It was not fair to ask, and she knew it. She was asking Trev to agree to fight no matter how badly she suffered. But she could not stop herself from asking.

"I promise," said Trev, shutting her eyes, and pulling one of Cassandra's hands against her heart. "I promise."

*        *        *

The Inquisitor staggered out of the eluvian and fell to her knees. Cassandra was the closest; she had been pacing with short, aggressive steps back and forth in front of the unresponsive mirror, and no one dared get between her and the object of her frustration. She caught Trev before she could go flat, but it was a near thing. 

The Inquisitor was still conscious, but barely. She was shaking violently, and in shock. "Solas," she gasped. "Took the Mark."

Cassandra's gaze fell to Trev's left hand, and she abruptly stilled. There was no green glow. There was no mark.

There was... a remnant of a hand.

"The eluvian," Trev whispered. "He said it will take us back... before it closes."

Cassandra did not hesitate. She scooped Trev up in her arms and snapped, "Through the eluvian. Now." and stepped forward. Bull and Dorian were on her heels.

It was chaos, afterwards. The soldiers guarding the eluvian on the side of the Winter Palace snapped to attention as Cassandra stepped through, and she was already shouting for healers. There were far too many people following her to the Inquisitor's quarters; she heard the terrified voices saying, "The Inquisitor, the Inquisitor has fallen."

Cassandra laid Trev on her bed; she seemed light, only barely there. The mage healer who had travelled with them was there; he took one look and spoke quietly to a servant. The surgeon was there, and she had begun to confer with the healer.

After a moment the healer motioned to Cassandra, stepping into the far corner of the room. "The hand must come off," he said in a low voice.

"No," said Cassandra, staring at him in horror.

"There is no choice," he said. "There is nothing left to save. If we don't she will certainly die; the flesh is already mortifying. If we take it now we may save the rest of her arm; if we wait I don't know if that will be possible. The surgeon will take it off, and I will give her as much healing as I can. We need three people to work with us; get everyone else out."

Bull had been close enough to hear. "Krem and I will stay," he said, and began to chivvy the others out of the room.

They got a potion into the Inquisitor and stripped Trev of her armour and shirt. The healer did his best to clean her arm. Then they moved into position. Cassandra sat behind Trev, supporting the Inquisitor's weight, and pinned her body. She did not think that Trev was properly aware of what was happening, though she was still conscious to some degree. The qunari's massive hands were resting on her legs and his lieutenant was holding Trev's left arm above the elbow. Trev sighed as the last effects of the potion finally hit, and finally lapsed into full unconsciousness.

Afterwards, when the stump was bandaged and the tools packed up, the healer set out potions and said, "She must drink one of these entirely when she wakes, and then another in the morning. After that, one every morning and evening. There are also these other potions, for the pain; she should take them as needed, but they will make her sleep. Tell whoever stays with her."

"I am staying," said Cassandra, who had slipped out from behind Trev but was still sitting on the bed.

"You won't be here all the time," said the healer. "Tell whoever helps you."

"I am staying," said Cassandra, scowling at him.

"All right," he said after a moment. "She will sleep a great deal after this; that is normal, and the potions encourage it. But if she shows signs of a fever, call me." Cassandra nodded, and the healer and surgeon left.

"I'll have food sent to you," said Bull.

"I'm not hungry," said Cassandra.

"I know, but you will be," he said. "And either way you'll need to eat to keep yourself going, as you know very well."

She growled and he clapped her on the shoulder. "She'll be all right." And then he and Krem were gone, and she was alone with Trev.

There had been no time to think, before; everything had happened too fast. And now... now everything had stopped. Trev lay very still between fine linen sheets beneath an elegantly embroidered down quilt. Her breathing was slow but steady. She was very pale, but that was an improvement on the grey tones Cassandra had seen recently beneath her skin while she still bore the Mark.

But now the Mark was gone. Her hand was gone. She did not know; she had not been aware, in the end, of what they did to her. Now she would awake and find it done, and someone would have to explain.

Cassandra felt very tired. But she would not leave that task to anyone else.

After some time there was a knock on the door. "Come," she said, and it opened; there were servants there. She could see a little beyond them; she recognized the edge of Krem's armor. One servant carried a large tray with a covered plate and two jugs, two carried large basins of water. They set them down, bowed nervously, and left.

Cassandra got up wearily and walked over to the basins. The water in both was hot, which was a luxury she generally did not bother with, and there were soft towels and finely milled soap, delicately scented.

She stripped off her own armour and then got Trev out of the rest of her gore-encrusted clothes and washed her as best she could. The Inquisitor's sleeping shirt was loose enough to get her into without too much difficulty; she tried to be careful with the bandaged stump. After that she washed herself, changing into clean clothing; the hot water had cooled by then but it didn't matter. She checked the covered dish; it was flatbread and cheese and hard sausage and fruit, all things that would keep if left but also sustaining. Grateful for the practicality, she ate a little out of a sense of duty and then put the cover back on it.

The larger jug contained water; the small one—she sniffed carefully—an excellent Antivan brandy. She poured herself a very little. She felt as if she could drink the whole thing and it would have no effect, but that would certainly be unwise.

And then she piled up some pillows and carefully sat back down on the bed, on the side away from Trev's left arm, wrapping a spare quilt around herself. She might sleep a little—she was very tired—but sitting up would ensure that she only slept lightly, should Trev wake.

In the night, she jolted awake from her doze, not certain what had roused her. The candles had gone out, and the fire had burned low; there was very little light. And then she heard the faintest sound, a change of breathing, a dislocation of silence, and felt the slightest movement beside her.

She put out a hand, and touched Trev's shoulder. "Trev?"

The Inquisitor took a breath then. "Cassandra?" Her voice was slurred and rusty as old blades.

"I am here. Let me give you a potion."

She found a couple of unused candles and lit them with a taper, then brought the potion that the healer had put out, holding it to Trev's lips and supporting her head while she drank, and then a second potion for pain. She seemed to have no strength, and even with Cassandra's hands helping she trembled with the effort of drinking. It would not do her harm to sleep more. Trev made a face at the taste, so she filled a mug with water and brought that; the Inquisitor drank thirstily. When she finished Cassandra let her head down and set the mug aside, then brushed the hair out of her eyes. It needed cutting, but there had not been time.

Trev had shut her eyes, and Cassandra thought she was sleeping again. But she was not.

"My hand..."

Cassandra swallowed. "They had to take it."

After a moment Trev said, "I thought they would. I saw it." She took a deep breath. "Where did they cut?"

"A little below the elbow."

Trev had still not opened her eyes. She exhaled, a little shakily. "Don't leave," she said indistinctly; the potion was working.

"I will never leave you," said Cassandra gently, reaching to hold Trev’s hand, not knowing if Trev had heard her or felt her grasp before sleep took her again. “I love you.” _I love you_.

*        *        *

The next morning she woke again, properly this time, and Cassandra reached for the potions. “No,” said Trev. “Get the Council.”

“You must take the potions, Trev.”

“They’ll put me to sleep,” said the Inquisitor. There were lines of pain on her face. “I need to speak with them immediately.”

“Surely it can wait a few hours more!”

“No,” said Trev, staring at her. “It can’t.”

Cassandra knew that expression; it was Trev at her most stubborn. If she did not acquiesce, she knew, the Inquisitor would attempt to get out of her bed and go looking for the Councillors, and although she might not make it far she would not stop trying. She sighed. “All right. I’ll get them.”

When the three of them had come in response to the messages of the runners, looking worn and tired as if they too had slept little, Cassandra made to leave the room, but Trev said, “No. Stay. You need to hear this too.” And then she told them what had happened. And after the stunned silences, the outbursts of confusion and protest, she said wearily, “I told him he was wrong. I told him we would prove it to him. I don’t know how. But we must.”

After a moment, Leliana said calmly, “Yes. We must think about this. But nothing can be done immediately; it is not a problem with a clear, easy solution. And there is time. We will think on this, and begin to look for options. In the meantime you must rest and recover, Inquisitor.” Her eyes caught Cassandra’s. “We will leave you to sleep. I think that sleep is the best thing for all of us now.”

After they had gone Trev finally accepted the potions, and ate and drank a very little. Cassandra ate too, and then moved the pile of pillows from beside her lover and undressed and slid into bed with her. She was very tired, and it would not hurt to sleep properly now. Trev, already half asleep, moved to take her hand. “If it’s not one thing,” she said muzzily, “it’s another.”

“We will stop Solas,” said Cassandra, squeezing her fingers gently. “We will find a way.”

“Will we?” said Trev, and then sighed, and subsided into sleep.

And Cassandra had no answer.

*        *        *

The Inquisitor's recovery would take time: the Mark had taken its toll on her, and now her body had been badly shocked, and she was very weak. But on the next day she grimly set herself to eat and try to exercise to regain her strength. The healer shook his head when she made it clear that she had no intention of following his instruction that she should do nothing but rest for a few days, but did not try to stop her entirely; he only made suggestions as to how she could focus her efforts.

"What about a false arm?" said Trev to him, her face calm. "I’ll need to have one fitted."

"You will not be able to wear one until the wound is fully healed," said the healer. Cassandra thought he was not nearly well enough recompensed for dealing with such a difficult patient.

"Dagna might have some ideas for that when we return to Skyhold," she interjected. "And by that time you should have recovered enough." Trev looked at her, frowning; she seemed to be considering possibilities.

"Yes. I’ll speak to her."

*        *        *

Trev did not ignore her injury, or pretend it had not happened; she spoke freely about it. But her focus was entirely practical: she would not speak of how she felt about losing her hand. Cassandra broached the subject once or twice, but the Inquisitor deflected her firmly. "I don't like it," she said once, when the Seeker had hesitantly tried to get her to talk, "and I'm upset about it. But it can't be helped, and there are more important things to think about."

Cassandra did not believe for a minute that Trev's reaction was as calm as it seemed. But she did not know how to penetrate her lover's defences. And in any case, it was not up to her how Trev grieved. It was up to her to be there, to support her. That she could do, even if she did not always know how to express what she felt.

And there _was_ much more to focus attention on. The question of the Exalted Council could be put off until the Inquisitor regained enough strength to deal with it, but Trev threw herself at it as if it was a lifeline, insisting on lengthy discussions with her advisors before she was really well enough to do so. Cassandra knew that she had been hesitant to make a decision as to the Inquisition's disposition, seeing both benefits and future problems possible from its dissolution or its continuation, but the resolution of the threatened Qunari invasion and the problem of Solas seemed to have settled her mind.

"Nothing will be served by letting the Inquisition continue as an independent power," said Trev. "Its purpose is ended, and it’s clear that it will only be a focus for the anger and distrust of the nations of Thedas. And it’s also now clear that we cannot avoid corruption within our ranks. I told Solas he was wrong in believing that the world must be wiped clean, and that I would prove it to him. If we are to answer his threat, it must be through other means. We can’t continue as we are."

They could, Leliana suggested, reduce the Inquisition and become an arm of the Chantry, but Trev disapproved of Vivienne's approach to the problem of the mages, and was not in agreement with her on a number of matters of policy; that would not happen. When she said so, Leliana simply nodded; it was a solution, but one that carried a good many risks, and Leliana agreed with Vivienne’s approach no more than Trev did.

There remained the question of what to do about Solas, for Trev was determined to stop him; but that could be resolved later, away from the eyes of the Court and the resentment of the nobles.

And so, to Cassandra's mind far too soon after she received the injury, the Inquisitor appeared before the Exalted Council and announced the dissolution of the Inquisition.

She held up well throughout, Cassandra thought. Her weakness was not evident; she seemed as strong and as forthright as ever. Her will would hold her upright, if there was nothing else to do so. But afterwards, outside the council rooms, she stopped and looked past Cassandra and said, "It’s done." There was a tremor in her legs that had not been there.

The Seeker looked at her and thought briefly of simply picking her up and carrying her to her rooms, but Trev would not thank her for that. She settled for putting her hand on her lover's back. "Breathe." Trev leaned against her hand for a moment, and seemed to pull strength from it; she made it to her rooms on her own feet. But she did not resist when Cassandra helped her undress and put her to bed afterwards, and she slept through most of the next day.

"Did I do the right thing?" she said to Cassandra, waking once, half-asleep and restless and anxious all at once. And Cassandra reassured her, hearing an aching echo of her own uncertainty three years before.


	2. Skyhold

Josephine and Cullen returned to Skyhold immediately to begin the process of disbanding the Inquisition. After they left there was only to wait until the Inquisitor was well enough to travel, which she insisted on doing as soon as possible. Cassandra thought that they should have waited another week or two until she was stronger, but there was no holding Trev. The direct antagonism of the previous weeks had dissipated to some degree, but it was clear that the Fereldans still distrusted the Inquisition and the Orlesians were annoyed that she had not become their pawn, and both waited to see if the Inquisition would stand by its word. Most of the courtesies offered were not genuine, and it was not a pleasant environment.

And Trev obviously wanted to get back to Skyhold for other reasons. Skyhold was where Dagna was, with her runes and enchantments and strange, clever ideas. Celene had offered the services of her own people, to at least discuss what was possible with an artificial arm—after all the years of war there was a great deal of experience available relating to such things—but Trev had refused. “When I wear a false arm,” Trev said privately to Cassandra at the end of one long, hard day, “it will be one that Dagna designs. She will make me something that does what I need it to.” She had asked Josephine, before the Ambassador left, to speak to Dagna about what could be done, and there would be something waiting for her, a prototype at least, by the time they returned. “I don’t want to lose any more time to this than I have to,” she said.

Cassandra felt a twinge of something, a nervous coiling worm of doubt, but said nothing.

The Inquisitor had not been sleeping well. Nightmares woke her almost every night, sometimes more than once. Her nightmares frequently woke both of them, although Cassandra suspected that she had also often slept through Trev’s waking; she herself was tired by the disruptions, but not as tired as the Inquisitor was. But perhaps that was simply because she was recovering from a dreadful injury.

There was nothing that could be done to prevent them, it seemed. At least she would allow herself the comfort of Cassandra’s arms afterwards, even if she refused to speak of what she dreamed. But she refused to talk about them. “What do you _think_ they’re about?” she said sarcastically, once when Cassandra asked, with a thin patina of humour that wasn’t very convincing. “It’s not as if I don’t have a lot of things to choose from when it comes to bad dreams.”

Trev stubbornly refused to let anyone do anything for her that she was capable of doing for herself. She could not do everything, of course, at least not at the beginning. Simple things, the most common things, had become impossible. She could not cut her own food. During the early stages of recovery she was given mostly soups, easy to swallow and digest, but when she regained strength the kitchens began to send more common fare, and the food arrived carefully cut into bite-sized pieces. The first time a plate of roast mutton and vegetables appeared in such condition, the Inquisitor looked at it steadily for some moments before taking up her fork and eating, with no signs of enjoyment. “I think the cook must have a great number of very small children in their family,” she said jokingly to Cassandra, with a smile that did not reach her eyes.

Cassandra thought that it was far more likely that someone in the kitchens had experience dealing with people with injuries such as Trev’s, given events of the past decade and more. But she did not say so.

It was not just food; it seemed like everything was a challenge. The Inquisitor’s clothing was not designed to be manageable for someone with only one hand, and at first someone had to help her dress and undress. And that meant that something as fundamental as relieving herself required assistance, until she had learned ways of coping. If Cassandra was not around she had to call for a servant, and it galled her. During the weeks of recovery in Val Royeaux Cassandra went to a tailor and had a few outfits made that did not involve quite so many buttons or complex fastenings, and those Trev could manage by herself with the help of a tool that Leliana had acquired for her. “I can see that the seamstresses at Skyhold will be busy when I return,” was all she said about it to Cassandra, with a twist of her mouth that the Seeker could not clearly identify as bitterness or humour. So Cassandra privately sent a message by raven to Josephine; there was no reason the adjustments to the Inquisitor’s wardrobe should have to wait upon her return.

Trev dealt with all the frustrations well, or so it seemed. She accepted her limitations without complaint. She asked for assistance when she needed it. She spoke with others who had lost limbs, looking to learn new ways to do things that were now difficult. She rarely showed anger when she had difficulties. The only thing that really seemed to provoke her was her own clumsiness. Her balance was off, very slightly, and it threw her off in a myriad of subtle ways. Cassandra thought that for Trev this the worst of all: her centering, her balance, her grace, was a part of what made her so effective as a fighter.

Well, it was almost the only thing that upset her. Cassandra found her in their apartments one day in a state of near apoplexy, swearing loudly, creatively, and entirely without repetition. She had the fireplace poker in her hand and was jabbing herself, awkwardly, in the back. The results for her clothes were both predictable and unfortunate.

“What are you doing?” Cassandra said in bewilderment.

Trev turned to her, red-faced and wild-eyed. “I have an _itch_ ,” she said violently, “and I can’t reach it.”

It might have been funny, but it was clear that it was in no way amusing to Trev. Cassandra did not laugh. She said only, “Where?” and when Trev told her, began to scratch.

The Inquisitor was trembling with rage, and only slowly relaxed. Cassandra scratched the itch, and a few more that had risen sympathetically, and then rubbed Trev’s shoulders and neck until she felt the tense muscles begin to soften a little, and a little longer. Later that day she asked one of the Inquisition soldiers who was a woodworker to carve a backscratcher for Trev, and a day later brought it to her; the Inquisitor gave her a small, twisted smile, and thanked her.

But for the most part, she kept her anger and frustration under rigid control, and her only comment on most difficulties was, “It will be better when I have Dagna’s arm.”

Cassandra did not think it would be that simple. She had known many people who had lost limbs, some friends, and seen what they had gone through. One learned to cope, one learned to do things in different ways, but an amputation changed things. Life would never be quite as it had been before, not entirely.

And Trev knew that as well as she did; you could not live through years of war without knowing it. Yet she did not seem to believe it. The Inquisitor had more resources than most, but some things could not be compensated for: you might learn a _new_ way to do things, but it was not the _same_ way, and the differences could change things. But Cassandra did not argue. How could she destroy the certainty that gave Trev the strength to cope so well with what had happened?

And apart from the nightmares, she _was_ coping well, or so it seemed. Trev was a model of how someone should deal with such an injury, apart from her apparent belief that things would be completely normal again when she had an artificial arm. She was coping so well that it made Cassandra deeply uneasy, though she could not quite pin down what disturbed her or find a way to express it.

Trev’s eyes were not the same, not quite. And there were no joints to her, the Seeker thought, nothing to grasp. She slipped and slid like water through Cassandra’s fingers, no, something more muscular than water, something that wound and twined and could turn and wrap around and choke the words from her mouth. She did not want to be silent, but in the face of the finality of Trev’s belief she did not know how to speak. She found herself touching Trev, reaching to hold her, far more often than usual. At least she could do that.

*        *        *

The journey back to Skyhold was gruelling for Trev, and the end of every day found her wordless and withdrawn from exhaustion, so tired she could barely eat the supper the scouts cooked before stumbling to her tent. She did not always sleep immediately; sometimes Cassandra would come to their tent an hour later and still find her awake. And nightmares still disturbed her rest. Her temper had shortened as her fatigue increased, and Cassandra thought that part of the reason she went to her tent so quickly was to prevent herself from taking it out on anyone.

There were plenty of things to annoy her. The problems of armour could not be addressed as easily as those of clothing. The countryside was not so safe that the Inquisitor should travel without it; and so every morning Cassandra helped buckle her into it, and every evening she unfastened it. And throughout the process Trev moved as she was told to and said nothing at all, other than a brief, “Thank you,” when the Seeker finished, a politeness that was unnaturally mechanical in its predictability and precision and thoroughly disturbing to her lover.

Everything seemed to take longer for her to do. This had been true from the beginning, but at the Winter Palace, where her focus had primarily been on recovering, the reality of it had been masked to some degree. Now that they were travelling the delays were obvious.

Even mounting a horse, though she could do it alone, was a more involved process than it had been: she could no longer swing into the saddle with one quick, smooth movement, but had to be carefully managed, with care for balance and how she placed herself, and it was impossible if the horse did not stand perfectly still. It was a subtle difference, but all the subtle differences added up.

Riding, with the changes in balance, also required more care and attention. The first time her horse did something unexpected, startled by a fennec bursting from undergrowth beside a stream, Trev fell off into a bush. Cassandra dismounted quickly and ran to her side, desperately worried, but Trev was already struggling to her feet, blood streaming from a cut across her nose and several scratches.

“Trev?”

“I’m all right.”

The healer had ridden up beside them. “Did you strike your arm?”

“I’m all right,” said Trev through her teeth. But she did not look it. She was very white under the blood. The healer began to insist that he must check her stump, and Trev insisted she did not need attention, until finally Cassandra overrode her.

“He will not be satisfied until he sees your arm,” she said. “Let him look. It will not hurt to take a break and water the horses.” Trev hesitated, the line of her mouth hard, and then gave in.

She had banged her arm when she fell; luckily no serious damage had been done, although she was in a lot of pain. The healer tsked and dealt with the cuts on her face and gave her a potion for the pain and rebound the stump, and then they mounted again and carried on, and Trev said nothing at all for some hours after.

That night, coming to their tent, Cassandra found Trev lying awake, and as she slid beneath her blankets the Inquisitor reached for her, and settled curled into her shoulder. She said nothing, only lay pressed against Cassandra’s side, and eventually her breathing changed and the Seeker knew that she was asleep.

It was the first time Trev had reached for her since her injury. Cassandra had touched her often recently, needing to hold her and reassure herself that Trev was really there. When she felt baffled and unsettled and wordless in the face of Trev’s apparent calm, her hands still spoke for her. Trev had come willingly into Cassandra’s arms when her lover moved to embrace her during the day or to snuggle close together at night, but she had not been the one to reach out first, and it was only now, when she did, that Cassandra realized it, and felt something shift round her bones with a flickering, testing motion.

*        *        *

Trev had barely been back at Skyhold before she went to see Dagna. The arcanist had already made a prototype of an artificial arm. Cassandra did not accompany Trev on that first visit—Trev had made it clear that she preferred to go alone—but the Inquisitor reported back to her with enormous enthusiasm and detail that evening when they finally had time to relax together.

“She needed to take fittings, of course,” said Trev, “but the basic structure is there. It is similar in some ways to other artificial arms, but she wants to go further. She wants it to be something that works as a hand for day to day things, but she wants it to be more efficient than most false hands. She also thinks that it has the potential to do far more. She wants to try to build in special tools.”

“Special tools?” said Cassandra blankly.

Trev grinned with enormous satisfaction. “Runes. _Weapons_. She thinks that there could be interchangeable components for different uses. The key, she says, will be keeping the weight down.”

*        *        *

There was endless administrative work, much of which the Inquisitor had to approve, and by the time Trev arrived at Skyhold there was an enormous backlog; Josephine and Cullen in particular were constant visitors to Trev’s quarters. Debts had to be collected, creditors had to be reimbursed, and accounts must be closed. The Inquisition had made many alliances, negotiating exchanges of value in doing so; these had to be ended in ways that did not put too many demands on the Inquisition but also satisfied the interests of the allies. And all of it had to be done in a way in a way that allowed the Inquisition to keep functioning effectively throughout the process of its own dissolution, a tricky and complex juggling of tasks and priorities.

Cassandra came up to Trev’s quarters late one afternoon to find her with Cullen, Josephine and Leliana, as well as Charter and Scout Harding. They all looked tired and out of sorts. In recent days Josephine had begun to look as grey and as harried as she had before they faced Corypheus. The fur trim on Cullen’s surcoat was more disheveled than usual, and he needed a haircut, which left him looking rather like a lion that had begun to shed in patches. Only Leliana looked almost fully herself, and Cassandra thought that was likely through sheer force of will.

“As I said at the beginning of the meeting, and at the meeting before, the Compte will not accept a substitute,” Josephine was saying. “Why are we discussing this again when we already know what he has set as an absolute requirement?”

“It slipped my mind,” Trev said sullenly. “I was thinking about something else when you mentioned it.”

Josephine let out a breath, clearly annoyed. She must be very frustrated indeed if her self-control had slipped to such a degree. “Inquisitor, you must pay attention, or we will continually cover the same ground over and over, and we do not have time.”

Trev opened her mouth, but Leliana was quicker to speak. “There is no point in talking more about this today, beyond authorizing Josephine to release funds. This is our only option, yes? We are tired and will only talk in circles if we carry on. We can discuss the rest tomorrow.”

“That seems sensible to me,” said Cullen, rubbing his neck. “I’m beyond thinking clearly.”

Trev looked like she still intended to say something, but in the end she shoveled her papers together, snapped her mouth shut, said, “All right,” and turned to Charter and Harding. “I’m sorry to have wasted your time and never gotten to what we asked you here for,” she said. “Will you come again tomorrow?” They nodded, looking thoroughly uncomfortable.

They all gathered their things and left, greeting Cassandra as they passed. Trev stayed as she had been, staring blankly at the documents in her lap. Her expression was grim.

“Was the meeting difficult?” said Cassandra, laying a hand on her shoulder. The muscles underneath her palm were tense.

“What?” said Trev.

“Was the meeting difficult,” said Cassandra patiently. These days she seemed to have to repeat herself far more often than usual; it was like dealing with Cullen when he was suffering the worst of the withdrawal from his addiction.

“Oh,” said Trev, and sighed. “They are all difficult. I wish it was over and done with.”

Cassandra could not argue with this sentiment. There was so much to do, and Trev bore the weight of much of it. The army must be disbanded and the soldiers had to be paid off, and those who had been permanently injured by their service given additional compensation. And on top of this every soldier, every servant, every cook and cleaner, every soul who had served the Inquisition in any capacity, must receive a personal letter from the Inquisitor, thanking them for their services. For Trev this was an absolute, no matter how long the writing might take. “I can lend you secretaries,” Josephine had said. But Trev would not accept that

“No,” she had said shortly. “They will have a personal letter written by me, not something that could have been dictated by anyone. I can do this, and I will.” And Josephine did not raise the subject again.

*        *        *

Cassandra accompanied Trev to one of her meetings with Dagna. There seemed to be a great number of them, mostly short and simply to take fittings and make adjustments. But on this day Dagna wanted to do more.

“It’s all a question of balance!” she said cheerfully. “The Inquisitor’s mechanical arm should be similar in weight to her real arm, or it will throw her off. That’s hard, because it needs to be strong, and I want to put things in it. Useful things! I could use lighter metal, but that would probably result in making it weaker. So it’s all a question of balancing this against that. This arm against that arm. _Precision!_ ” She grinned. “I’ve been going at it all wrong. It’s time for a new approach.”

“And… where is this revelation taking us?” said Trev.

“I need to weigh your arm,” said Dagna.

There was a slight pause. “I’m afraid I can’t detach it,” said Trev.

“It would make it easier if you could,” said Dagna consideringly, “but we can work around that. Look!”

They looked. There was a complicated metal structure with gears and wheels and extremely complicated-looking interlocking parts and a large number of leather straps. It didn’t seem as solid and permanent as Dagna’s devices usually did, having a jury-rigged air to it. It also looked to Cassandra like some of the more unpleasant devices she had seen in torture chambers.

“Don’t look at me,” said Harritt irritably, though no one was looking at him. “She gave me the plans, I built it, but I don’t how it works.”

“It’s a _scale_ ,” said Dagna patiently. “Well, parts of it are. You lie in it, we strap you in and weigh your arm that way, then adjust the angle and weigh it again. I’ve worked out calculations to account for the weight of other muscles on your arm when it’s set at different angles; it’s very precise. We can set it at two dozen angles. We can even turn you upside down!”

“Please don’t,” said Trev faintly.

“Oh, don’t be silly,” said Dagna. “It won’t take more than an hour at most, and you’ll only be upside down for maybe ten minutes.”

Cassandra stayed for the entire hour and a half that the weighing required. After seeing Trev’s expression, it would hardly have been fair to desert her lover.

“This,” said Trev afterwards, “had better be worth it.”

“I’m sure it will,” said Cassandra, leading the way to the tavern.

*        *        *

The disposition of Skyhold itself was a political quagmire. The remnants of a disbanded Inquisition, in the form of the Inquisitor and her associates, could not stay there after the organization had been dissolved; her presence would be a challenge to the sovereignty of both Orlais and Ferelden. In any case Solas knew far too much about the place. But although technically Skyhold was Fereldan—that country had built the keep on the ruins of Terasyl’an Te’las—it lay in an area where the border between Orlais and the country of the doglords was uncertain at best, and Celene would not be likely to tolerate Fereldan forces there, controlling the pass.

It was Josephine who came up with the solution in the end. “Fiona is negotiating with Divine Victoria again,” she had said, “because the Inquisition mages have agreed unanimously that they do not wish to join the Circle. I think that there is some possibility that Most Holy will allow the College of Enchanters to reform and absorb them.”

Trev had stared at her. “Do you really think that Vivienne would allow that? She shut down the College violently when Fiona first tried to open it. She does not at all like the idea of mages who are not under her control.”

“It is better than having them roaming the countryside, and avoids the problem of dissidents within the Circle’s ranks,” said Josephine. “And these are mages Most Holy knows and respects. I think that there is a tolerably good chance that she will allow it now, as a mark of her regard for the Inquisition. If the College does rebuild, it will need a permanent base. Skyhold is on the border, so it would not accrue the localized political power that it might gain if it located in Ferelden, making it an adversary, or in Val Royeaux, making it a direct competitor. And it is out of the way, but not so remote as to be unobservable; she would be confident of being able to keep an eye on it.”

“Then speak with Fiona,” said Trev, “and join the negotiations with Divine Victoria.” And Leliana and Cullen had nodded in agreement.

“There are some risks to it,” said Trev later to Cassandra, recounting the discussion. “But on the whole I think it's a practical solution. Fiona will be beholden to the Inquisition for this, and that means we’re likely to have a warm welcome here, even after we’ve disbanded and dispersed.”

“I think that allies will be important in the future,” Cassandra agreed, “even if the alliances are not formal and political. I am glad that Josephine proposed it; I would not have thought of such a thing.”

“That,” said Trev, “is why we pay her such high wages.” And then they both laughed, for it was an old joke; the stipends that Josephine had arranged to be paid to high-ranking members of the Inquisition, including herself, were far from extravagant, because the organization had been chronically short of resources, and most of them had at least some income from other sources. When the Conclave had been destroyed, Trev had been poor as a Chantry mouse compared to many nobles. The Inquisition had strict rules about pillaging, but in a time of war there was always legal plunder to be had, and the Inquisitor had benefited from its availability. Trev had handed most of her personal profits to Varric to invest, as had several other companions, and now had a comfortable income, although she was not rich by comparison with most nobles.

When all was said and done, it was likely that there would be some wealth left after the Inquisition settled its debts, but Trev would see none of it. It would be needed if there was to be any possibility of working against Solas. It had been agreed than any such profits would be hidden and unrecorded and that Josephine would use her contacts in Antiva to invest them in ways that kept them available but showed no connection to their sources. “It will be very simple,” she had said with great satisfaction.

Cassandra was glad to see Trev laugh again, even if it was so briefly and with a touch of sadness. The companions and advisors would be dispersing now, some like Josephine going back to the lives they led before the Inquisition, some to new lives and opportunities, some to work for the future. It was a bittersweet time.

It was one of the few times recently that the Council’s discussions had gone so smoothly, with all in accord. They were getting on each other’s nerves, and it was showing in their interactions. And Trev was distracted and forgetful and irritable and always exhausted. She was jumpy about the least things, high-strung as an overbred race-horse and startling every bit as easily. Cassandra did not know how to deal with it. She had known Trev to be moody in the past, but this was somehow different.

She herself had considerably more spare time than Trev did. She spent it in training, in sparring with others, in documenting plans for the Seekers, in writing to Seeker Emery in the Hunterhorn Mountains. She did not spend it in worrying about Trev; she was very careful not to do so. If she allowed herself to worry about Trev she would not be able to prevent herself from worrying at Trev, and she did not think her lover would accept that kind of constant prodding, especially not in her current mood. No. Trev would be fine. It was simply that she needed to adjust to the loss of her arm.

Harding found her one day, practicing with the training dummies, and stood by diffidently until she had finished the proscribed moves. “Scout Harding,” she said. “I have not seen much of you recently. Are you well?”

“I am well but a little tired, thank you,” said Harding. “Charter and I have been attending quite a few of the Council meetings, and they do drag on.” She grinned a little ruefully. “I honestly think it is less tiring to be in the field.”

“I am very thankful that I am not involved in all of those meetings,” said Cassandra fervently.

“Yes, well,” said Harding. “I, um. I wonder if I could ask you to walk with me? Outside the walls? There is something I wanted to ask you about. Privately.”

“I can do that,” said Cassandra, wondering.

There was a knoll a little distance from Skyhold with an excellent view all around. _She really does want this to be private_ , thought Cassandra as they walked there. Harding had said nothing as they walked, and looked around carefully when they reached the knoll.

“What is troubling you?” said Cassandra.

Harding licked her lips nervously. “It’s—I—I am worried about the Inquisitor.”

Cassandra’s stomach sank. _As am I_ , she thought, but she did not say it, only nodding and attempting to keep a bland expression. “What worries you?”

“Well,” said Harding, “I’ve been in a lot of meetings with her, and talked to her at other times, and she’s not herself. She’s _really_ not herself. But no one is saying anything about it.”

Cassandra frowned. “She is dealing with the loss of her arm,” she said. “It is hardly surprising that she would not be herself, as you call it.”

Harding was frowning, looking stubborn. “Well, yes. But it’s more than that. I mean, the arm is bad enough, yes. But. I don’t know why everyone is ignoring it. Maybe they don’t want to think about it. I mean—” She stopped and stared at Cassandra, who stared at her in bafflement. What was she getting at?

“She has battle fatigue,” said Harding all in a rush, and then looked horrified at her own words.

“No,” said Cassandra reflexively.

“No one is saying anything,” said Harding. She had turned quite pale; Cassandra wondered just what her own expression was showing. “I don’t know if they don’t realize or if they just don’t want to say anything because sometimes people think it’s shameful, like Orlesians do. But it’s _not_ shameful. Maker, half of Ferelden had it after the Blight, and some still do. I’ve seen it before. Everyone has, but I have an uncle who has it, and a cousin, so I’ve seen it up close. It’s the same.”

“People who have battle fatigue cannot function,” said Cassandra. Her lips had gotten strangely stiff and difficult to move.

“That’s not true,” said Harding stubbornly. “Some of them can. It hits different people differently. My uncle used to have bad dreams and see people who had died, but it didn’t stop him from functioning. My cousin had it worse for a while, but now she manages just fine as long as she’s careful.” She stared at Cassandra defiantly. “I just want to make sure someone _knows_ ,” she said. “I want to make sure _you_ know. So you can help her. It was hard for them, and it took time, but people helped and they’re a lot better now. My cousin, you’d hardly know she ever had it, she’s doing so well.”

 _It cannot be battle fatigue_ , Cassandra thought later when she was alone. _She is not a coward. She is the furthest thing from a coward. I know it. Look at how she is dealing with the loss of her arm; she is not weeping about it, she is not hiding, she is calm, she is taking action._

_It cannot be. It is only the adjustment to losing her arm._

She could not speak to the others about this. It was impossible. But perhaps she could speak to Trev. Perhaps she could gain reassurance by speaking to Trev. She began to think about what she could say, and how she could say it, and that occupied her for the rest of the day, for nothing seemed right. But she must try.

That evening she attempted it. “You have been so distracted and grim recently, my love,” she said carefully as they sat reading and Trev had only turned the page once while she had read an entire chapter. “And your dreams—you are not sleeping well. I am worried for you. I am worried—” She hesitated. “I am worried that you may be suffering from battle fatigue.”

She had been afraid that Trev would be angry, but her lover simply looked at her incredulously. “What in the Maker’s name gave you that idea?”

Cassandra could find nothing to say.

“Of course I’m grim,” said Trev, beginning to sound irritable. “ _I lost my hand_. It takes a little while to get used to that. I think I have reason to be irritable and distracted, don’t you? Maker!” She glared at Cassandra.

“You have every reason,” said the Seeker. It was exactly what she had been telling herself, after all.

“Everything will be fine when Dagna’s arm is working properly,” said Trev with finality, picking up the book again without looking at her.

Yes. That would help. Harding was wrong. There was no reason Cassandra should still feel uneasy.

But things were not going as smoothly with the artificial arm as Trev had expected and Cassandra had hoped. The prototype Dagna had made had been created without the Inquisitor present for a fitting, and required a considerable number of adjustments. While her stump was healing she could not wear it to test it, and later, even when adjustments to the fit were made, it was not comfortable. Every time a modification was made it seemed to chafe somewhere new. Then there was the question of designing something that Trev could put on without help, which Dagna had not considered and which introduced a whole new set of problems. Dagna finally worked out a fit that was successful and manageable by the Inquisitor on her own, but even then, at the end of a long day, Trev seemed glad to take it off when she was in the privacy of her own rooms. Cassandra thought that it was not as comfortable as she pretended, and likely would never be so.

Dagna had boundless enthusiasm. Artificial arms with simple grasping mechanisms that could be adjusted with the other hand were common, but she had done things that had never been done before: she had incorporated runes that would allow Trev to control the motion with the muscles of her upper arm and shoulder. And that was only the beginning, she said. She had _ideas_. She had no sooner given Trev her arm than she had begun planning to modify it to make its mechanics more efficient, an ongoing process that meant making adjustments that were sometimes significant and necessitated still more fittings.

She wanted to make it simple to attach different tools to the arm for different uses and still have them controlled by Trev’s muscles; this was considerably trickier than designing a simple arm. She wanted it to be possible to use attachments that made the thing a weapon. There were endless possibilities, countless design decisions with varying advantages and disadvantages, and she talked about them endlessly. “Perhaps,” said Cassandra during one meeting, when she noticed a faintly glazed look in Trev’s eyes, “it would be best to focus on the basic arm first, and then work on the other options once the Inquisitor has mastered its use.” Trev’s had always been good at focusing on details, but currently she had seemed to have lost her ability to concentrate for any length of time, and Dagna tended to go on and on.

Dagna looked mildly disappointed, and Trev looked slightly relieved. Even with the arm fitting properly, it was challenging to learn to use; it was as if she was a baby learning to use her hands again, and she was just as clumsy in the beginning, and very aware of it. When she had learned the basic techniques of using it she still had to learn how to use it _well_ —she had no sense of touch, for example, so she had no way to know how hard she was grasping something. Getting a sense of that required endless practice and resulted in a great number of broken eggs. (“I am getting very tired of omelettes,” said Trev.) Grasping small objects was different from grasping large objects; holding cloth which could tangle required different techniques from holding something smooth and hard which could slip. And learning how it worked required hours spent doing the same thing over and over and over. During the day there wasn’t much time, so she worked with it mostly in the evenings, when she was already exhausted and her patience frayed, and her progress was slow.

Cassandra came back to the Inquisitor’s quarters one evening just in time to hear a loud crash, and, startled, ran the last flight of stairs. She found Trev standing staring at a tipped over table and broken crockery, the crockery and utensils she had been most recently practicing using her artificial hand with. “Are you all right?”

Trev looked up with a set and furious face. “I’m _fine_.” She turned and walked out onto her balcony.

 _Ah,_ thought Cassandra, realizing that the overturned table was not an accident. _Her temper snapped_. She had been half expecting it to happen; Trev had been far too reasonable about everything, unnaturally so, for far too long.

She did not follow her lover. If she went to Trev now, while Trev was still angry, the Inquisitor would flare up at her, and later feel guilty for it, and then be angry again. Or worse, she would not flare up: she would express nothing, and simply stare past Cassandra as if she were not there. They had learned the patterns of each other’s anger, over the years.

She took up a book instead, found herself a place on the settee, and read, or at least pretended to do so. She did not touch the table or the crockery, as that would also provoke Trev. There was no sound at all from the balcony; if Trev was grieving or fighting battles with herself she did so silently.

Eventually she walked back into the room and set about picking up the mess. Her face was pale but calm, and Cassandra ached for her.

“May I help you?” she said, putting down her book. Trev hesitated, and then grudgingly nodded, and Cassandra found the brush used for the hearth, and began to sweep up the smaller shards after Trev moved the bigger ones into a bucket retrieved from a closet. _O my love_ , she thought, _will you not let me comfort you? Will you not speak to me?_ But she knew Trev, and Trev’s anger and pain, and said nothing aloud, and did not try to touch her. Not now.

“I didn’t think this would be so difficult,” Trev said eventually. Cassandra hesitated.

“Was it not working properly?” she said finally.

“The arm works perfectly,” said Trev bitterly. “The problem is with me.”

“It is simply a question of time,” said Cassandra. “But you know that.”

“Do I?” said Trev. She was beginning to look angry again. Cassandra thought that she wanted a fight, and was not about to give her one.

“You do,” said Cassandra firmly. “Come.” She took the bucket to the balcony, lifted the remnants of a broken plate, and looked at it with consideration. Then she reached back and threw, as hard and far as she could, to see the plate curve through empty air to shatter on the rocks below. “Can you better that?”

Trev had a competitive streak that didn’t surface often, but when it did it was strong. She found another broken plate, set herself carefully, and threw it. She was still a little off balance, but she had judged the angle right, and the wind caught it, and it landed a good twenty feet beyond Cassandra’s.

And by the time the last of the crockery was disposed of she was in a much, much better humour.


	3. Leavetaking

“You’re right,” Trev said to Cassandra a day or two later. “I need to work harder at learning how to use the arm properly, so I can get better at it more quickly.”

That was not at all what Cassandra had meant. She opened her mouth to say so, but Trev was still talking. “I’ll get up earlier and work with it before breakfast. That way I won’t be as tired as I am in the evenings, so it will be easier. Dagna is still making changes, and I need to stay on top of them. If I put more time into practicing it will be fine.” She smiled at her lover blandly.

Cassandra shut her mouth. What could she possibly say in the face of such conviction?

Trev still needed considerable help in doing everyday things, and it was clear that she resented it, though she was careful not to take her temper out on Cassandra, who did most of the helping. The Inquisitor’s temper had snapped briefly, but she forced her anger back behind a wall of calmly distanced preoccupation. It was her usual response to situations she hated but could not escape; Cassandra had seen this detachment emerge whenever Trev had to visit Val Royeaux and deal with the Game. She had not expected to see this facade of remote professionalism applied now, when they were home in Skyhold and most of those she had to deal with were friends. She had not expected to see it applied to herself.

She _must_ be angry and frustrated; Cassandra knew that in her place, faced with the provocations of work and the challenges of her injury, she would not be able to maintain the kind of calm Trev projected. It _must_ be artificial. But after the incident with the crockery Trev did not fully lose her temper again, at least not when Cassandra was around, and the Seeker saw only the briefest flashes of anger, quickly suppressed.

Even at the beginning of their acquaintance, Trev had shared more of what she was feeling than she did now. It was not that she denied being upset, exactly; she acknowledged her feelings, when Cassandra asked, but she referred to them in a way that made them seem unimportant. She employed a kind of opaque honesty that baffled Cassandra, who did not know how to get by it and was deeply unsettled by her failure. This was all wrong. But she could not see how to change it; she could not force Trev to speak. All she could do was be there to listen if she did.

No, she could do a little more than that. She herself could speak, and perhaps Trev would respond honestly.

She was not confident that it would make a difference. Trev was the one who was able to put words together when it came to feelings. All too often words fled when Cassandra tried, leaving her awkward and speechless and entirely unable to say exactly what she meant. But she had gotten better at it, because Trev never pressured her to speak, never judged her words when she did, and seemed to understand what she meant even when she was most inarticulate. After so much time together, there were times now when she was able to say exactly what she meant. She could at least try.

“I worry for you,” she said to Trev one evening as they sat reading. “I know it’s hard for you now, and I don’t always know how to help. If there is ever anything I can do, and have not done—it is not because I don’t want to, it is only because I don’t know how.”

Trev lowered her book and looked at her warily. “Is this—” She seemed to think better of what she was going to say, and stopped.

“I am not asking for anything from you when I say that,” said Cassandra quickly. “I only want you to know that if you need anything from me, whether it is listening or speaking or helping in some practical way—you only need ask. I am sure you know this, but I wanted to say it.”

Trev looked at her for a moment, and gradually her face relaxed into a half smile. “I do know it,” she said. And that was all; but Cassandra felt a little better afterwards, and it seemed that the Inquisitor did too.

But it was not enough to really comfort her. Cassandra had begun to realize that Trev did not want to be touched. This was new and unsettling. She accepted the necessity of the healer’s work with her arm without protest or comment, but when he treated her she stared off with a disinterest so strong as to suggest that she was entirely absent from the whole procedure. She startled far too easily, especially when someone took her by surprise, and it took too long to recover. She still sought Cassandra’s embrace—when they went to bed, she still reached to hold her lover—but there was a tension that had begun to run through her at other times that was not customary, and she avoided being touched by anyone else altogether. She did not actually flinch from Cassandra’s touch when the Seeker reached for her, but there was something in her response that was tense and resistant. Cassandra found herself stilling her own instinctive movements to hold, to give comfort, and it disturbed her deeply. Touch had always spoken for her when words could not, but now that language felt chancy, as if she might startle some shy creature into flight, and she did not know what to do. At Halamshiral after the Qunari invasion was stopped sometimes she had looked into Trev’s eyes and felt that she was looking into the eyes of a stranger, or worse, some creature of coiling, elusive smoke. Now it was different, but no less upsetting.

“Legends say that a halla leads an elf into the afterlife,” said Trev late one night to Cassandra as they lay in darkness. “Had you heard that?”

“I had not,” said the Seeker. “But it does not surprise me. The elves revere the halla as noble companions, and do not force them as herdbeasts, but request their assistance.”

“It must be strange,” said Trev. “To spend your whole life following an animal, and beyond your life even into death. It must be strange to _be_ such an animal, and trusted so.”

“It is a mark of their respect for the halla to see them that way, I think,” said Cassandra, and they lapsed into silence. The Inquisitor had been reading a great deal as she recovered, and had grown particularly interested in old legends, which sometimes were difficult to tell apart from histories. They might provide clues to the nature of Fen’Harel and his goals. The stories were interesting, she said, and even if there was little absolute truth in them there was the truth of metaphor.

Metaphors. Trev had led the Inquisition; did she see an equivalence? Probably not. The Inquisition had not died; it was being dissolved by choice. There might be no one for her to lead now, but there was also no one who was leading her. And it was not as if she was dying, and needed to be guided into the afterlife. _I’m overthinking this_.

Cassandra understood elves, at least partially; the situations of their lives gave them very different experiences from humans, which of course affected their outlook, but they felt the same emotions. But she had never understood the halla, a creature that put itself in harness without compulsion or consciousness of duty. She wore a harness of service herself, willingly, but she was driven by her faith and the need to find truth. This could not be said of a beast.

Lying still now, as her lover’s breathing deepened into sleep, she thought of halla with unease. They were shy and elusive and evaded all races but the elves. Their motivations were a mystery and their behaviour unpredictable; they made a bargain that made no sense. Their eyes were strange and intelligent, and seemed to see things that she could not. They were animals, and they were not. They were the unknown, and dangerous.

Now, after all that had happened, she thought, Trev’s eyes were like the eyes of a halla.

 _What ridiculous imaginings_ , she told herself firmly, and willed herself to sleep.

*        *        *

Trev’s arm had healed well, according to the surgeon and healers, but she was still in pain. There were creases between her eyebrows that would not go away, and dark shadows under her eyes. She was still not sleeping well. And one evening Cassandra looked at her, sitting on the edge of the bed pulling off her boots, and saw that her face was drawn, every muscle in her body set, and set down her book. “What is wrong?”

“Nothing,” said Trev irritably. And then, “My arm hurts.”

“Where Dagna’s arm fastens? Is it chafing?”

Trev said nothing for a moment, and then, “No. In my forearm and wrist and hand. The parts that aren’t there.”

“I have seen this in others,” said Cassandra slowly. “It is a very strange thing. Have you asked the healers about it?”

“Yes. They say there is very little that can be done about it. Sometimes it disappears with time, sometimes it never goes away. They’ve given me a potion to help with the pain, but I don’t like to take it; it makes me stupid.”

“If it would help,” said Cassandra cautiously, “I could massage your arm.”

Trev said nothing for a moment, then finally said, “All right. Let’s try it,” and stripped off her shirt and undid the bandage that protected the stump.

Cassandra was cautious, her touch gentle, learning the shape of the bone and muscles that were left, learning what did and did not cause pain. Eventually Trev sighed, and her tense posture relaxed fractionally. After a bit Cassandra let her hands move to her lover’s neck and shoulders. They were set like the wires in Varric’s crossbow, set like stone. This she felt more certain about; when it came to backs she knew what Trev liked. She set her hands and dug a thumb under a shoulder blade, and Trev gave an involuntary hiss, flinched, and then relaxed into it. A little later she pulled away, but it was only to subside face down onto the bed, and Cassandra did not stop her work.

When the muscles were finally softer under her fingers she asked her to roll over onto her back and moved her attention back to Trev’s arm again. She was still gentle in her handling of it; she did not dare use her strength as she had elsewhere, and Trev did not ask her to, as she usually would if she thought Cassandra was being too tentative. But she put her love into the touch, all of it; she had been holding back for too long. The line between Trev’s brows had smoothed, and her breathing had become slow and regular, and eventually Cassandra realized that she had fallen asleep, and finally stopped. To touch her lover like this seemed fiercely intimate, and she felt as if she had been given a great gift.

She pulled a quilt over Trev, but did not otherwise disturb her. She had been sleeping so badly that it would not do to rouse her to finish undressing; if she could find sleep, let her take it. And then she banked the fire, blew out the candles, undressed herself, and slid into bed herself.

*        *        *

After the Qunari invasion was turned back Blackwall had gone from Halamshiral directly to the Wardens, and Dorian to Tevinter. But some of the others had returned to Skyhold with Trev and Cassandra, to spend a little more time together before they dispersed to their varied lives. Varric had come, sending Bran on ahead; he seemed reluctant to return to Kirkwall, where so many responsibilities awaited him. The Iron Bull had accepted a contract in Ferelden, and had decided to bring the Chargers the slow way; they would travel the rest of the distance with Sera. Cassandra thought of the possibilities for mayhem with both the Chargers and Sera in Denerim, and shuddered.

They were the first to leave. Both Bull and Sera had spent time with Trev, whenever they could convince her to leave her duties and spend time drinking with them at the tavern, and they had both sought Cassandra out as well before the time came to go.

“Look after her, yeah?” said Sera, two nights before they left, finding her in the practice yard. “She’s not right yet. If she gets stupid about things, tell her she can always change her mind and join the Jennies.”

“I will tell her.”

The rogue looked hard at her. “ _You’re_ all right. With her. Or you will be. That’s easy. It’s the rest that’s hard.”

Cassandra was touched, and heartened. “Thank you, Sera.”

“Not stupid, right? Things are going on. Things are always going on, maybe going underground for a while. So if you need the Jennies—you call on us, right? Tell her that. But not just her; you, too.” And then she moved and gave an astonished Cassandra a fast, fierce hug, and was gone.

Bull found her on the battlements the next day, and leaned beside her, and spoke in a desultory way about the contract that the Chargers had taken, and where they planned to go. “You’ll be working to reform the Seekers, I guess,” he said finally.

“Yes,” said Cassandra. “I found a few Seekers who survived, and told them the truth of our history. I have recruited some of them. There is land in the Hunterhorns where we have begun to build. But it will wait. Right now—” She hesitated.

“Right now you need to stay with the Inquisitor,” said Bull, as if it were the most logical thing in the world.

“Yes.”

“And when everything is done, and it’s all shut down? Will she go with you, up north?”

It had not occurred to Cassandra that Trev might not, until that moment. She opened her mouth, hesitated again, and then said, “I hope so.”

Bull made a rumbling sound deep in his chest, but said nothing else. It was curiously unsettling.

That evening they drank together in the Herald’s Rest, Trev and Cassandra and Varric and Sera and Bull and the Chargers, and Trev laughed and laughed, and drank far too much and had to be helped back to her quarters, and later Cassandra held her steady as she was sick in a bucket.

“Wish I’d been smarter,” Trev said shakily, sitting on the edge of the bed. “We could’ve stopped it, maybe. I should’ve known.”

“What do you mean?”

“Solas,” said Trev. “Could’ve talked ‘m out of it. Got ‘m to stay.” She was rubbing at her stump. “Might’ve even still had an arm ‘f he’d taken it sooner. Might’ve had a world. Stupid.”

“None of us knew,” Cassandra said gently, helping her settle back in bed. “He hid what he was very well. You could not have stopped him from leaving, from doing the things he chose to do.” Trev said nothing, only sighed.

Cassandra could not sleep, and lay worrying about what Trev had said, about what it meant. Moonlight lit the room, splashing up the walls, and light and shadow lay across their legs, tangling with the patterns of the quilt, shifting as she moved uneasily. “Trev?” she said finally. But there was no answer, though she knew that her lover was only pretending to be asleep.

When Varric left it was a much quieter affair. The dwarf had spent quite a bit of time with Trev over the weeks of her recovery, especially immediately after her injury, when he had amused her by telling her stories. “I can’t work out what’s true and what’s bullshit,” Trev had said at one point. “But then with Varric it’s possible for things to be both at the same time.”

Trev had arranged a public dinner in his honour, followed by a much smaller gathering of the friends who were left. “You may not care,” she said when he grumbled about the dinner, “but you’re Viscount, and you still have rebuilding to do in Kirkwall. You need money from outside for that, and when people see you treated as an important person they’ll believe they should treat you that way too, and that will help. Trust me, I know all about proving your worth by holding a fancy dinner.” So in the end he put up with it, though he clearly was much happier when the party of friends retired to a small, private anteroom to continue their celebrations.

At some point Cassandra found herself standing in a corner with him, on the outskirts of a group listening to Leliana recount a scandalous story about the Game and Divine Beatrix.

“I am glad that you found time to write the Inquisition’s story, despite your political responsibilities,” she said. “I don’t know if I have said it properly: I do thank you for it, and for the advance copy. I read it with enormous pleasure.”

He eyed her sideways. “Are you getting soft, Seeker? I thought you’d find every bit that wasn’t absolutely accurate and call me out on it.”

She raised an eyebrow. “There are plenty of exaggerations. And occasionally the truth has been stretched to a truly _interesting_ point. But the things that are important are there, even if some of the details are not exactly as they happened. Even if some of the relationships described are not entirely representative of the truth.” She scowled at him, because that would be what he would expect, but there was no real annoyance behind it, and he laughed.

“Will you ever change, Seeker?”

“No,” she said. And then, because it was true, “I will miss you, Varric.”

His face went blank with shock, and, she saw with satisfaction, his jaw actually dropped. It was so _difficult_ to surprise Varric, and she was not sure that she had ever achieved it before. But then, of course, he pulled himself together.

“Be honest,” he said. “You’ll miss the chest hair.”

“I am quite certain I will never again have its like in my life,” she agreed.

He had an enormous, self-satisfied grin, but then, while the others were laughing uproariously at something Leliana had said, it faded. “She thinks her story is over,” he said very quietly. “But it isn’t. Help her to understand that.” And then he moved briskly away to laugh with the others, and jeer at Cullen’s horrified response to Leliana’s tale.

When he rode out the next morning with a small party they were there to see him off, and Cassandra found a moment to speak to him while Trev was talking to someone else. She had thought about what he said, what it meant, and what to say in return. “Whatever tale she finds herself in, I will always stand by her,” she said.

“I know,” he said, and swung up onto his pony. “Just… eh. What do I know about these things? It’s not like I’m so good at this shit. Look… when things settle down, bring her to Kirkwall.”

“Perhaps.” She nodded and stepped back as he turned his mount to say goodbye to Trev.

*        *        *

There was only the Council left now of Trev’s closest associates, Cullen, Josephine, and Leliana, and they would remain until the end. Cullen would go back to Ferelden; Divine Victoria had granted him land there, and he planned to build a sanctuary for former Templars who wished to free themselves, as he had, from the lyrium addiction, so that they could begin new lives and end their days with dignity and peace. Josephine would return to Antiva and her family business, and Leliana would accompany her and set up new networks there. Charter and Harding were already gone, off in different directions to do the same, and eventually Leliana would gather up all the strands and hand them over to her lieutenants. “It is as Justinia said: I need to lay down my burden,” she said to them, “but I will always be available to be called on.”

Cassandra knew that Trev was genuinely pleased that her friends had found new challenges and opportunities. If she felt personal grief at their leaving, she did not show it; she saw them off with a smile and good wishes. The only sign of upset she had shown at all was drinking too much the night before Sera and Bull left.

The Seeker thought she _must_ feel sadness. Cassandra herself felt sadness as they left, and she had not been nearly as close to the Companions as the Inquisitor had. But even in privacy Trev did not speak of it.

“It is strange to be here with so many gone,” Cassandra had said tentatively to her. “I did not expect to become friends with a street urchin, or a Qunari spy. When I first met them I was quite convinced that we could not be friends. But I miss them, and find it lonely. I even miss Varric.”

“It is certainly very strange for it to be so quiet,” said Trev, and then changed the subject.

*        *        *

Trev swung between an odd, hyper-focused attention that encompassed every detail of everything around her and a kind of distracted loss of concentration that left her oblivious to everything around her. The results of the distraction were sometimes frustrating for her friends; the obsessive concentration was tiring.

It was at least partly the result of her lack of proper rest, Cassandra was sure. Between the nightmares and the pain in her missing limb Trev never seemed able to get a full night’s sleep, and the hours she left herself for rest were already short; she was still working late, and now getting up early to work with the arm. No one behaved normally when they were so tired. But she could not entirely dismiss Harding’s words, either. These behaviours could be explained by exhaustion, but they were also a symptom of battle fatigue. Cassandra thought of what Harding had said and then tried not to think about it anymore, for she could not see anything more to do about it than she had been doing. It had been made clear to her, and more than once, that Trev did not wish to talk about the problems she was having.

There was a meeting with Leliana in the Rookery, and toward the end Trev subsided into a kind of half-waking doze. It didn’t matter; the important things had been talked about, and decisions made. Leliana and Cassandra were simply clearing up some minor details between them.

And then a runner cleared his throat close behind the Inquisitor, and the next thing Cassandra knew the man was flat on his back at the top of the stone staircase, sucking in a great reflexive breath after having all the air driven from his lungs; a very little more and he would have tumbled down the stairs. Trev was on her feet, looking as startled as Cassandra felt. Leliana was the only one of them who did not seem entirely disconcerted.

“I’m sorry, Deacon,” said Trev, as the man pulled himself to his feet clutching his stomach, “you startled me.” She was pale and her hand was twitching.

“It is a testament to your abilities that you can move so quietly,” Leliana said to her runner, “but perhaps in the future you might want to make a little more noise when approaching.”

“Yes ma’am,” he said to her, and, “Sorry, your Worship,” to Trev. And then, watching her cautiously from the corner of his eye, he passed a sealed note to the spymaster, backed away carefully, and retreated to the far side of the Rookery.

“We’re done here, right?” said Trev. “I need some air.” And without waiting for an answer she ran down the stairs.

Cassandra looked at Leliana, who said, “No harm was done. But I think, Cassandra, that if you can, you may wish to take care that she is not startled like that too often. Her reflexes since she was injured have become somewhat too abrupt for safety.”

Cassandra opened her mouth, but could find nothing to say. Leliana looked at her shrewdly.

“She has lost her balance, I think,” she said quietly. “She needs to find it again. I—” She hesitated, then said diffidently, “I have some experience with that. I have offered to speak about it with her, but she has refused me.”

So that was why Trev had been strangely wary around Leliana in recent days; Cassandra had wondered. “She does not want to speak of the things that trouble her,” she said after a moment. In some ways to say anything at all felt like a betrayal; but this was Leliana.

“Even with you?” said Leliana. “Well, she should not be forced. But my offer is open, if you ever think she would accept it.” And then she turned the subject to something unimportant.

 


	4. Claws and teeth

Trev _was_ jumpy. The incident with Deacon was not an anomaly; she responded in exaggerated ways to far too many startling sounds, things that would normally not have elicited any significant reaction. Coming out of the quartermaster’s offices with Cassandra early one morning, there had been a sudden clash of swords and shouting from the sparring yard. It was not unusual in itself, but combatants rarely started so early; they were practicing for a friendly competition that would happen in a few days, and so there was more activity and interest than usual. Trev had reacted violently, wheeling about, going for the weapons she was not carrying and then, when she realized what she was reacting to, standing very still. She was pale and there was a faint tremor running through her body.

It was not the first time this had happened. She would be tense and jumpy for some time afterwards, and find it difficult to concentrate. Cassandra had seen other fighters who had endured terrible things startle in the same way, reacting to everyday events as if they were threats. Sometimes the effect was transitory and they calmed over time, returning to normal. But sometimes they did not.

_If Harding is right…_

She did not know what to do to help Trev, whether it was battle fatigue or something else. This was not something the healers agreed on, for it was not a problem that could be solved with a healing potion. For every theory she had heard expressed as to what treatment was best, she knew of an example that proved the opposite. Many seemed to think the best approach was to attack the issue head-on—but sometimes that made the problems more acute.

She had met a Templar healer once who had told her that the best thing to do was let the afflicted person take the lead: “If you force someone with battle fatigue to do something against their will, you will almost certainly make it worse,” she had said. “Work with them, not against them.” That made sense to her. But was it _right_? Or was it simply that it agreed with her inclinations? Was her own fear driving her inaction?

_I can offer suggestions_ , she thought one morning, sitting at her table. She should have been writing to Emery about the progress in building the Seeker hold, but she could not concentrate. She felt as if something had taken permanent residence in her guts, something that stretched and heaved and bit in equal measure. _But is that pushing? If I do so will she feel that she is being forced to something?_ She put her head in her hands. _If only there was something I could do, and know that it was right._

Trev apparently fell into the camp of those who attacked things head-on, for she threw herself into sparring as soon as the healers told her she could do so safely. Or perhaps it was simply that her determination to master the arm goaded her into it. She spent a great deal of time in the yard. It made sense to do so, given that she was learning how to fight with an artificial hand, but too often she practiced beyond what was reasonable, until she was staggering with fatigue. Sometimes Cassandra wondered if she was punishing herself. But it did at least seem to make her a bit less reactive.

The obsessive focus on sparring created a new set of problems, however. There were still difficulties with the arm’s function; in some ways it was too crude, in others too fragile, and it kept requiring repairs. “If at first you don’t succeed,” Dagna said cheerfully every time Trev brought her the recalcitrant mechanism, but the endless adjustments were wearing on the Inquisitor.

In the beginning she had been very clumsy, not able to fight effectively at all. But before the Companions left, Bull had stepped in and told her that she needed to do specific sets of training drills to get used to working with the arm before she took on sparring with a partner, and she had grimly done them over and over. It had helped, she said.

She had been sparring with partners again for several days before Cassandra stopped to stand by Bull and watch her work with Sera. They’d been at it for some time. Trev was dripping with sweat, and looked tired and cross; Sera barely seemed to be breathing harder than usual.

Trev was as good with blades as anyone Cassandra had ever seen, fighting with perfectly centred balance and a speed that seemed almost unnatural—or she had been. Now her moves were a little too slow and slightly off, and Sera was never where she needed to be for the blows to land, though Trev had always been able to best her before; Sera was good with daggers, but not that good. But Trev missed and missed, and finally, after Sera’s wooden blade had come up yet again to slap against a gap in her armour, she had simply stopped, said, “ _Fuck_ ,” and threw her practice blades down, breathing hard through her nose.

“You need a different fighting style,” Bull had said then. “That arm is pretty good, but the balance isn’t the same as a real arm. Probably won’t ever be, even with those weights Dagna’s playing with. You haven’t got the same control you used to, so you’re not as fast. Get Dagna to build armouring into the arm, so you can use it defensively. It won’t be the same as a shield, because you can’t use it to attack or take a full-strength blow in the same way, but you’ll be able to surprise people with it.”

“Yes,” Trev had said after a moment, and then walked off toward the Keep, ignoring Cassandra entirely.

Now Bull was gone, and so was Sera, but she fought on with whoever she could convince to work with her, though she still lost more often than she won and was no less frustrated. Dagna had made the arm sturdier, adding defensive plates to it in accordance with Bull’s suggestions. But that had made the arm heavier, and changed the balance again.

Trev had not truly assimilated what the changes meant, Cassandra thought. It was not just that she had to learn how to use an artificial limb. It was that at a very basic level, the capabilities of a mechanical hand were very different from one of flesh and blood, and all the practice and determination in the world could not change that. And it clearly infuriated her; where once she had been unshakably calm when fighting, now she seemed to find it hard to keep her temper. Anger always seemed to simmer just beneath the surface, and Cassandra thought she was not the only one to notice it. People had begun to approach the Inquisitor with a certain degree of caution. She was rough-edged, packed rim to rim with coals that flared up at the least breeze, though she always suppressed the blaze quickly. So far, at least.

Cassandra thought that Trev’s anger was mostly directed against herself, and that others only felt the spillover. The Inquisitor had approached the fitting of her artificial arm with a clear determination to become proficient in its use as quickly as possible. She had consulted with other amputees to learn from their experiences, and what did and did not work for them, and applied what she learned. She had accepted Bull’s advice. But when sparring she kept reverting to her old style, which was based on speed and exquisitely fine-tuned control, and missing her strikes. She would forget that the arm itself could be a defence, and take blows she could have turned aside.

“You would think that I could learn to use this thing properly,” she said bitterly to Cassandra to one day after losing yet another bout to a soldier with unremarkable skill. “I feel like a bear, just striking out and hoping a blow will hit.”

“Bears do a great deal of damage,” Cassandra said pacifistically.

“If I wanted to fight like a bear,” said Trev with some acerbity, “I would fight with a greatsword. I want to fight like—like a wolf. In and out before they know they’ve been bitten. Like a fennec, fast and agile.”

“It will come in time,” said Cassandra, and hoped she was right. She was sure that her lover’s frustration was hampering her. She was usually more patient, and less prone to anger when things did not go well for her. At her current level of suppressed fury it was surprising that she was making any progress at all.

_She thinks she is failing_ , Cassandra thought. _But she is not_. It was just that although Dagna’s arm was far more sophisticated and capable than others of its kind, Trev’s ambition, what she expected to be able to do with it, and how soon, did not match the reality of the mechanism. _There is magic in it, and she expects magic. When she doesn’t get what she wants she blames herself. She does not see that it is not that she is failing, it is that what she wants is impossible. But how can I say that to her? It would crush her._

_But if I don’t say it, I am lying. Someone must speak the truth to her._

In the end she swallowed her misgivings and said nothing. She was certain that with time Trev’s skills would improve; it was only a question of how much. If she was not discouraged from trying, it might turn out that her abilities would outstrip Cassandra’s expectations. It would not be fair to hobble her, even if it felt dishonest not to speak.

Even if the thing in her gut set claws of doubt and murmured constantly, quietly, that silence would do Trev no favours.

*        *        *

Cullen held ultimate responsibility for the disposition of the army, and so although in large part she was in closest contact with Josephine during the Inquisition’s dissolution, it was he that Trev worked with in her writing of the personal thank you letters for military personnel. He had an uncanny ability to remember the names, character and particulars of the people under his command, and provide that information to the Inquisitor. He himself was writing letters of recommendation for those who wished to continue in military employment, and had asked Trev to add her signature when an individual’s abilities were especially high.

Cassandra and Trev were crossing the lower bailey late one afternoon when Cullen called them over. He was standing with a Fereldan named Petros, a soldier who had lost a leg in the final battle against Corypheus. As he was reasonably well educated and fully committed to their cause, Petros had continued to work for the Inquisition as a scribe in the years following, never questioning or resenting his injury in its service.

“I thought you would like to know, Inquisitor,” said Cullen cheerfully. “Petros has found a position with the Arl of Denerim. He will be working as the Arl’s secretary.”

“It’s your recommendations that got me the place,” said Petros, who looked very pleased with himself. “Yours and the Commander’s.”

“I am glad to hear it,” said Trev, smiling. “Though I should think it will not be as varied as the work you have last been doing.” Petros had worked primarily for the Council, transcribing records and notes from their meetings, and had seen a great deal of sensitive material, a trust he had never betrayed.

The man shrugged. “Maybe not, but it’s not as if there are that many war councils needing my services. I’m happy enough. When you’ve been messed up you take what you can get and be glad of it.”

“Yes,” said Trev after a fractional pause.

Later, walking away with Cassandra, she said quietly, “People like Petros make me feel like a fraud. I have given no more than they, and yet I’ve got wealth to protect me now, accumulated because of my position, and they don’t.”

“That is so,” said Cassandra. “But you have ensured that they are treated fairly, so that none are in want. You have provided good pensions for those who have not had your chances, and many fighters have added to that with their own prizes, even if their opportunities were not so great as yours. I do not see that there is more that you could do.”

Trev grunted and said nothing more, but Cassandra did not think she was convinced.

Cullen’s commitment to his soldiers made him tireless in his efforts to find places for them. He was particularly pleased to find a favourable settlement for any who had been invalided out of service, and made a point of letting Trev know when they had a good position to go to. He was also preparing the ground for his planned sanctuary for former templars, and had recruited a good number of former soldiers to help, sending them to repair the old estate that the Divine had granted him. It had been a college for chantry clerics, but the Mage-Templar wars had driven them away and destroyed much of the infrastructure. “If you can rebuild it,” Vivienne had said in the note accompanying her letter of authorization, “it is yours, and I will settle the deed on you.”

Cassandra approved of his project, though she thought it would be challenging. Cullen was putting a good amount of his own coin into it, and had worked with Josephine to raise more from wealthy donors, mostly families with strong ties to the Templars. The Ambassador had helped him plan strategically so that the sanctuary could be self-sustaining in the long term, and Varric had also provided advice on investing funds. He was delightfully enthusiastic and hopeful for his sanctuary and what it could do, and when given half a chance talked about it incessantly. “I may not be able to help everyone who comes,” he said, “but even if they are too damaged to become fully themselves again, there will be a place for them to end their days in peace.” Trev fully approved of his project, and had spoken well of it, supporting his cause without reservation and donating funds, and he kept her apprised of his progress.

But now every time she returned from a meeting with Cullen, she returned with a sharp edge of anger and threat from which it would take her hours to settle. Cassandra could not understand it: Trev _liked_ Cullen. She had found his reflexive instinct toward military solutions frustrating sometimes, but respected him greatly, and the Seeker knew that she considered him a friend. As far as Cassandra could see he was doing nothing out of the ordinary. But it happened too often to be coincidence. It made no sense.

And it was not just Cullen who provoked her; the other Council members seemed to do the same. Some days she seemed all claws and teeth.

On one occasion Trev asked Cassandra to ride with her to Redcliffe Farms. There was no particular reason for it, she said, save that she needed to practice riding and managing a horse with the artificial hand, and it was a good excuse to get away for a day or two. There was nothing so urgent that she could not afford to take the time off. And so the next day, after the midday meal, they rode out.

The journey was uneventful, and by the time they returned Trev had begun to look much more comfortable riding. Master Dennet had already returned to his family, taking most of the horses he’d supplied to the Inquisition, and it had been pleasant to visit with them in peaceful times. Trev had even tried Seanna’s racecourse, and though her first attempts were at a cautious pace, by the end she was riding almost as she had before her injury. Seanna had called in some friends, and they had raced against each other, and while Trev had not won she had performed respectably, and was not last either. She seemed happier than she had been in some time.

But if the journey was pleasant and uneventful, the return was not. They had barely left their mounts in the stables when Josephine found them; she must have left word that a runner should be sent when they returned.

It was clear that the usually unruffled Ambassador was furious. It was not that she was never angry, but in the Game strong feelings demonstrated a potential vulnerability that was dangerous to exhibit in public. If she was upset by someone’s actions, it would be made bitingly clear, but in an exquisitely polite way, and generally in the privacy of her office.

But now she did not trouble to hide her rage. “If you intend to slink off on your own business instead of attending events where your presence has been advertised as a benefit for guests, Inquisitor,” she said in precisely enunciated syllables, “perhaps you could do me the courtesy of informing me that you will not be in attendance.”

Trev looked first guilty, and then angry. “I didn’t know that my presence was such a benefit that it was _required_.”

“I spoke to you about the dinner for Duke Deserres and his entourage,” said Josephine. “You agreed to attend. I expect _honesty_ from you, at the very least!”

Trev looked even more mulish. “I changed my mind. I didn’t think it was important. You are the one handling these things; you are the one who makes the event successful, not I.”

“We are in the midst of delicate negotiations with other parties, negotiations that affect the disposition of monies and contracts. The Inquisition _cannot_ afford to be seen as unreliable!”

“There _is_ no Inquisition now,” said Trev furiously. “That is the entire point of all this, is it not?”

“You are the Inquisitor,” hissed Josephine, “and until the last soul leaves and the keys are given to Fiona the Inquisition exists! Your duties have not simply evaporated because you prefer it that way!”

Cassandra flinched internally. It was not a good idea to use the word “duty” when Trev was angry, and Josephine would not normally have been so careless. But she looked not only furious but exhausted; there were dark circles under her eyes.

Trev opened her mouth and then appeared to forcibly stop herself from saying whatever was behind her teeth. “I apologize,” she said, carefully and clearly. “I will not try to slip the reins of your _duty_ again. I shall follow every instruction you give me to the best of my poor abilities.” And she bowed deeply, insolently, turned her back, and walked away.

The Ambassador had gone white, her face expressionless as she stared after the Inquisitor. “Josephine,” said Cassandra tentatively, but got no further.

“I have work to do,” said Josephine, and walked away briskly.

*        *        *

Impatient with her progress with the arm, Trev gave in to Dagna’s enthusiasm and began to experiment with the other tools that the Arcanist had created for her. Dagna had built the mechanism with a simple locking device that allowed different extensions to the basic arm to be slotted in. The one that she customarily wore did not look like a human hand, being built for efficiency rather than aesthetics; it had a grasping mechanism that allowed fine-tuned control and was designed to adapt to different shapes and textures. There was also one that was shaped like a hand, should she wish to disguise her injury, but it did not have nearly the same degree of precision, and Trev rarely bothered with it. Dagna had also made a few extensions that were essentially tools modified to fasten to the arm, to help Trev do particular tasks.

The most interesting of these, at least to Trev, were the weapons. Dagna had begun by adapting several daggers to slot into the arm, and made weighted wooden versions for Trev to practice with, but she had also developed a system incorporating a series of small knives that could be shot from it, and now was working on giving them enough force to do real damage. After she had solved that problem, she said, she would tackle incorporating a small grappling iron. Cassandra thought that Sera’s influence was entirely too strong in her assumptions of what Trev would need.

Dagna would join Sera in Denerim when the Inquisition’s dissolution was final, but had remained in Skyhold for the time being because of her commitment to perfecting Trev’s arm. She and her lover exchanged frequent letters, and it was after one message from Sera that Dagna insisted on adding new runes to the arm that would allow Trev to make the hand freeze or heat what it touched. “You never know what might be useful,” she said enthusiastically. So far Trev had not found a use for this beyond making drinks hot or cold. It was a benefit, certainly, she said wryly, but less so when everyone wanted her to change the temperature of _their_ drinks as well as her own.

The variety of extensions for the arm made learning its use even more challenging, as Cassandra had expected. But it was Trev’s choice to do so, and she said nothing. And at least one unexpected side benefit was that some of the accessories, once detached, served as excellent backscratchers.

*        *        *

It was very early, and light was just beginning to define the shape of the room. Cassandra looked at her sleeping lover, at the movement of smooth muscles as she breathed, at the play of shadows on skin, and _wanted_. They slept together in Trev’s quarters, and had done so now for a long time; the Seeker only returned to her own bedroll in the loft above the smithy when the Inquisitor was away. Trev was close, and warm, and infinitely desirable.

Cassandra let out a breath slowly, and rolled onto her back. The ceiling had been restored during their occupation of Skyhold, and there were complex decorations on the panelling. She let her eyes follow the shapes, making a game of identifying as many plants and animals as she could. There were a great number of dogs, or were they bears? The keep had been built by Fereldans, so they were probably dogs. Unless the Fereldans were from the Hinterlands.

It was not that they had not touched since Trev had lost her arm. There were times when the Inquisitor needed the comfort of touch, and if she would not allow anyone else to give it, at least she would ask for it from Cassandra. But they had not been physically intimate since Trev’s injury.

At first it had been impossible, because Trev’s state of health would not allow it. And then there was the return to Skyhold, and all the adjustments the Inquisitor had had to make, and her constant exhaustion. But afterwards, when things were a little easier and it should have been possible, she had mutely intimated that she had not wanted to be touched, at least not in that way: a shifting away from Cassandra’s hand, a back turning in the bed they shared.

Cassandra had not pushed, for the most part. Once in bed she had been direct, and said, “Will you let me hold you, let me love you?” And Trev had refused.

“I’m sorry,” she had said, looking horribly upset. “I just… I can’t. Not yet.”

“Is there pain?”

Trev looked even more uncomfortable. “It’s—not if I’m careful. Apart from the pain in the missing part, and that’s not relevant. It’s just that I’m not—” She made a frustrated sound. “I can’t explain.”

“When you are ready,” said Cassandra, trying to hide the disappointment she felt, “I will be here.” And she wrapped her arms around her lover, and kissed the top of her head, and simply held her until she felt the tense muscles begin to relax.

She would not push. She would wait, patiently, until Trev signalled that she was ready. She told herself that there were many adjustments Trev had to make. Even if her arm had healed, there was still tenderness in the stump, and there was still the phantom pain, and that must have an effect; it was natural that she would not want to do something that might cause more hurt. She had taken an emotional blow, and must relearn herself; it was natural that this would take time. Cassandra might not entirely understand Trev’s reluctance, but she would respect it. She would do nothing to push her lover, nothing that might cause discomfort or pain. She would be patient. She would give Trev as long as she needed.

*        *        *

Leliana must have been aware of the conflict between Trev and the Ambassador—even if she did not have eyes and ears everywhere, Josephine was her lover and confidant—but she said nothing about it, leaving them to work it out on their own, a strategy Cassandra heartily approved of. The Left Hand had become considerably less confrontational and aggressive over the past two years, finding a balance that the Seeker thought much healthier than the edginess of the months after the destruction of the Conclave.

But Trev and Josephine had not settled their disagreement, and although they said nothing more about it they behaved around each other like cats with fur that had been ruffled the wrong way, and Trev in particular became more and more snappish. After one particularly nasty argument in the halls near the War Room, which Trev had provoked and the former Hands had been witness to, both Trev and Josephine stormed off in tempers. Leliana sighed, and said regretfully to Cassandra, “It is to be expected, I suppose. The Inquisitor has been under a great deal of pressure lately.”

Over her shoulder Cassandra caught sight of Trev, who had turned back; the Inquisitor was bristling visibly. “I am not an _infant_ , Leliana,” she said.

The spymaster smiled, turning. “Of course you are not. But we are all stressed, and stress does have a way of shortening our tempers, no?”

“Do not patronize me,” said Trev curtly, and walked away.

Leliana stared after her until the door slammed behind her. “She is having a difficult time. It is probably a good thing that she will not have responsibilities as Inquisitor for much longer.”

“Do you think she is incapable?” said Cassandra, suddenly furious.

Leliana looked at her gravely. “I think that she has taken a blow that she needs time to recover from, and the position of Inquisitor has never allowed her time. I am simply glad that she will soon be able to do what is needful, rather than what is required.”

“She has borne more than any of us,” Cassandra muttered, still angry.

“Yes,” said Leliana. “But no one can bear everything forever without respite, to manage and cope and continue as if nothing is wrong. To do so—” she stopped, and then said with an expressionless face, “It twists one. I do not wish to see that happen to her.”

There was nothing Cassandra could find to say to that.

After that Trev seemed far too easily provoked by Leliana as well as Josephine, and was constantly on edge. Cassandra said nothing to Trev about her issues with the two women, or her more mysterious problem with Cullen. They were all adults, and perfectly capable of sorting things out for themselves if they chose to do so. But eventually Trev’s annoyance with the Councillors began to spill over onto the runners who served them, and after she found the Inquisitor shouting at one for something that Leliana had done—she was never quite clear what it was—Cassandra heard echoes of things Vivienne had once said to her. _I must speak up_. That evening as they were sitting before the fire in Trev’s quarters, reading, she put down her book and said, “I know you have issues with the Council. That is between you and them. But you are taking your anger out on the runners who carry their messages, and that is not fair. They are not at fault, and they do not have the status to protest your treatment to your face.”

Trev went very still, and Cassandra had a sense of something large and fierce looming in shadows. The Inquisitor said nothing, but took several deep breaths. Finally she said, “You are right. I will apologize.”

“I think they would appreciate that,” said Cassandra. Nothing more was said about it, but Trev treated the runners better after that.

*        *        *

Trev did not lose her temper with Cassandra, who had expected it and did not understand why it had not happened. It was not possible that the Inquisitor was not upset with her lover from time to time; occasional annoyances were part of any relationship. And right now Trev was very, very reactive. She was a mass of tense, smouldering rage, provoked by the least thing.

But when she thought about it, Cassandra realized that Trev had never fully released her anger. Even with Josephine and Leliana, it was as if a single claw had been extended, twisting to shred and slice; the full weight of that ripping, tearing fury had never crashed down on either of them. When she was challenged directly, as with the runners, the claw was withdrawn; she had indeed apologized to those she had offended, and as far as the Seeker could see her apology was genuine and given without reservation.

With Cassandra the claws remained entirely sheathed. And so did much of what Trev thought and felt, for while she _seemed_ open, she had continued to close herself off in subtle ways that she had never done before, and the Seeker did not know what she was thinking.

When they had fallen out, years before, Trev’s anger had turned against her ferociously. Cassandra never wanted to experience the like again. But they had both learned from that, and had been careful not to let such fury build and twist them as it had then. They had learned that silence would destroy them. They had learned to talk. Now Trev seemed to talk, but gave nothing away, and it terrified Cassandra. It was all wrong.

“I know you are sometimes frustrated and angry,” she said once, carefully. “If you are angry with me, speak to me.”

Trev had looked at her, eyes widening with startled, unguarded fear, and then a mask of calm had slammed down. “You have done nothing to deserve my anger,” she said, and changed the subject.

And the weight of her own fear was like a great paw, pressing Cassandra down.

*        *        *

Trev still spent part of each day in the practice yard sparring with whoever was available. She was becoming better at it as she learned the arm’s subtleties; she won quite a few bouts now. But she had not been sparring with really skilled fighters. Her companions had dispersed, and those left did not have their abilities, apart from Cullen, whom she was avoiding, and Cassandra.

The Seeker had offered to spar with her a few times, but somehow there was always a reason why it was impossible. They were not good reasons, though, and both of them knew it. Cassandra had not pushed, though Trev’s reluctance made no sense. She did not know why Trev avoided sparring with her, but she understood that her lover’s defences were as tall and rigid as the walls of Skyhold, and seemed to draw strength from those walls. But this did not mean that a confrontation about it was entirely impossible.

She insisted that Trev ride out with her one day, for a much-needed break from her administrative duties; the Inquisitor initially refused, but in the end eventually allowed herself to be persuaded. They had a pleasant day, riding down into the foothills of the Hinterlands below the fortress, enjoying the peace of the territory that had once been so riven by conflict. They wore their lightest armour and did not bother with helms, as they were not going far and expected no problems. They saw few people, only the odd traveller or scout, for they kept mostly to trails rather than the main roads, and it was peaceful and quiet. Even the bears that plagued the area seemed to have withdrawn to other places, at least for the day.

Eventually, finding a sunny meadow, they stopped to rest and eat a light meal of cheese, nuts, apples, and finally a few small pastries, washing it down with a fine wine. And when they had finished and were lying warm and loose-limbed in the grass, Cassandra said, “Spar with me.”

The arm against hers tensed. “This is supposed to be a day for relaxing.”

“And you have often used sparring as a way to relax. I am not asking for a competition, just a friendly bout to stretch our muscles.”

After a moment Trev said quietly, “I do not find sparring as relaxing as I used to.”

That had the ring of truth, and was more open than she had been in some time. Cassandra sat up and looked at her. Trev was staring into the empty sky. “Is that why you have been avoiding sparring with me?”

There was an even longer silence, and then Trev got to her feet. “All right. Let’s do it.”

Cassandra had always been a better fighter than Trev, but that did not mean that she always won their bouts. She had weight and force behind her, and was well protected by her armour and shield; but Trev, with her skill and lighter gear, could move considerably more quickly. Her speed let her avoid taking blows and her skill let her land strikes that Cassandra could not prevent, and this had always enabled her to win a respectable number of bouts.

But now things were different, for both of them.

For a few minutes they circled, sizing each other up; and then they closed. Cassandra had to make a conscious effort to remember that Trev would not be fighting as she usually did. She began her attack by feinting with the dagger in her right hand. But Cassandra kept the side of her eye on the left hand, and sure enough, when she'd partially turned to block the dagger, the mechanism sent a small knife at her. She'd been expecting something like this. Her shield whipped around and caught it, and then she followed up, and Trev went down flat.

It went on like that for some time. Cassandra was not certain why; certainly Trev was moving quickly enough, but she was moving predictably, and Cassandra's responses were hard enough that she went down as often as she was able to dodge. She managed to land a few blows, but none were well enough placed to be dangerous. She was clearly outclassed, and beginning to look hot and angry.

The shift from sparring to serious combat happened slowly, and it was only gradually that Cassandra realized that Trev had begun to fight all out. Sparring with edged weapons was extremely dangerous unless the fighters had the skill to hold their strokes and place blows exactly as they intended, and even then it was not safe. Both Trev and Cassandra were superlatively skilled in this, as well as at defending, which made them excellent adversaries when training the inexperienced.

But Trev had stopped holding her strokes. There was an almost-visible cloud around her, red and ferocious and huge and looming, all fangs and claws. _I should stop this_ , thought Cassandra. But then some other part of her said, _No. Let it play out. But be careful_.

The danger now was not in the ferocity of Trev’s attack, but in its carelessness. Gradually her moves became jerky, hurried, unplanned and unpredictable, and as she became more and more mindless in her attacks Cassandra shifted to an entirely defensive style of fighting. The Inquisitor’s breath had become rough, sobbing in her throat, and her blows were loose and unfocused.

And then, unexpectedly, Trev landed a blow to her mailed shoulder that momentarily paralyzed Cassandra’s shield arm. The shield was a weight, hampering her; she threw it away, and as Trev flung herself forward she parried, a blow that caught Trev’s armoured right forearm in a way that sent her dagger flying off to the side, and then she dropped her sword as well, and punched her lover, hard. Trev went down, and Cassandra flung herself on her. She could not so easily remove the blade from the artificial arm, because it was locked in place, but she could immobilize it by pinning the arm, and did so.

Even in her lightest armour she was considerably heavier than her lover, but Trev did not even try to squirm out from under her. Her right arm was free, and she used it, pounding hard at Cassandra. A mailed fist caught the Seeker on the side of her unguarded skull, behind her ear, though the awkwardness of Trev’s position gave it little force. Cassandra flinched and twisted, shifting her weight a little and tucking her head into a less vulnerable position by Trev’s neck, and hung on. Her ribs were armoured and Trev’s mobility was limited; her lover’s blows could not really hurt her, though she might pick up some minor bruises. Trev would stop eventually.

But it was some time before she understood that Trev’s sobbing breath was not just the sound of exhaustion. By then the blows, while still coming, had lost all their force, and Cassandra shook her hands free of her gauntlets and rolled to pull her lover half over herself, arms still wrapped tightly around her, and began to stroke her hair.

Eventually Trev stopped weeping, though it took a long time. By then she had dropped the second dagger and flung away the gauntlet from her right hand and locked her arms around Cassandra, and she snuffled messily into the Seeker’s breastplate. “I’m sorry,” she said indistinctly.

“There is no need to be sorry,” said Cassandra matter-of-factly, and kissed the top of her head, and then felt Trev take a deep breath.

“There is,” she said. “I lost my temper and really attacked you.”

“You have been very angry, I think,” said Cassandra, cautiously.

“I don’t _want_ to be angry. I don’t _want_ to take my anger out on you.” There was a note in Trev’s voice that Cassandra could not identify. “Solas is the one I should be angry with.”

“Solas is beyond our reach, at least for now,” said Cassandra. “But I am here.” She felt the slightest shiver run through Trev’s frame.

“I don’t want to be angry with you,” said Trev in a muffled voice. “I don’t—I can’t explain why I am.”

Deep down, Cassandra had known that Trev was ferociously angry with her, but to hear it stated so bluntly…. She shut her eyes for a moment, feeling as if she were standing on a narrow sandbar in dense fog with the tide slowly, inexorably, rising. “Do you still care for me?”

Trev jerked. “Yes!” she said in a terrified voice, raising her head and looking at Cassandra. “Maker, never doubt that!”

The fear and honesty in her tone was reassuring. Cassandra felt as if the sand beneath her had grown more solid. She lifted her hand to touch her lover’s cheek. “I love you,” she said. “I would do anything to help you, do you understand? You do not need to be alone.”

Trev caught her breath in a kind of gulping sob and dropped her head onto Cassandra’s shoulder. “Just… just hold me. Please.”

Cassandra wrapped both arms around her lover and tightened her grip, then let one hand run slowly down the length of her back, over and over, gentling her. It was not likely that Trev could feel much through the layers of mail and stiff leather, but she would know what Cassandra was doing, and that she meant comfort by it. They lay like that for a time, until the bright-edged sharpness of the moment began to soften.

And then Trev, who had been very still under Cassandra’s hands, nuzzled up into the hollow of her neck, shifting into a more intimate position, and Cassandra’s senses roared to life. Trev had begun to kiss her neck, and then her mouth, and eventually to move her hand. She knew all of Cassandra’s sensitivities and reactions, and began very deliberately to exploit them, and Cassandra shivered under the touch of her lips and fingers.

Trev did not undress her. It was a question of releasing some buckles, of shifting things, of loosening clothing, just enough, of sliding a hand underneath. It was hurried, and awkward, and it had been too long. She was unable to hold back, and she felt Trev shudder with her when she found release.

They lay very still for a time afterwards. “I love you,” said Trev, barely audible, her face pressed against Cassandra’s neck.

“Oh my love, I have missed you. I have needed you,” Cassandra whispered, and felt her lover’s arms tighten.

Eventually they rose and began to put themselves back together, and then Trev noticed the trickle of dried blood on the back of Cassandra’s neck. “I hurt you,” she said, “you’re bleeding.” And then she stood immobile and wordless.

“It’s all right,” said Cassandra, feeling for the wound and finding it negligible. “It’s just a small cut from your gauntlet, and it’s stopped now. I didn’t even notice. And for a head wound, it barely bled. Help me clean up, will you?” And she handed Trev her flask of water and a handkerchief, and after a moment her lover poured water onto the fabric and began to clean the small cut.

Neither of them spoke of anything that had happened in that meadow after they had collected their horses and begun to ride back to Skyhold. They only talked of unimportant things; the colours of the leaves, the way the grasses moved in the wind. And then green shifted to grey and then white, and they were riding through Skyhold’s gates.

Later that evening, as they prepared for bed, Cassandra looked at Trev. The lean planes of her lover’s body caught the last light of the fire, shifting and moving as if there were someone else caught under her skin. She felt something lurch in the centre of her chest with a strange sense of longing and fear.

When they slid into bed and Trev moved into her arms to cuddle as they did every night before they slept, Trev’s head tucked under her chin, she gathered up her courage. “Will you let me love you?”

She felt her lover tense, and closed her eyes, feeling a wash of sorrow. But then, “Yes,” said Trev, very quietly.

In love Cassandra’s touch had always spoken for her when words were difficult. Trev tended to be much more vocal, whispering endearments and encouragements. But now she was silent, though she responded to Cassandra’s mouth and hands, and the Seeker found that it was she who murmured to her lover. “I love you,” she said as her palms skimmed over the planes of Trev’s face, and again as her hands drifted lower. “My love, my heart.” And Trev reached up to knot fingers in her hair and pull her down into a kiss.

Cassandra loved Trev’s body, every bit of it, the unexpected softness of hidden places, the roughness of use, every callous, every scar, every perfection and every flaw. It had been too long since she had touched her intimately, and now she wished to relearn every inch of her lover’s skin, and she did not want to hurry. She let her fingers and mouth explore, pressed her body against Trev’s, sinking into the sensation, the feel of her lover everywhere, skin to skin, dissolving into slow movement and helpless, mindless arousal.

Almost mindless, but not quite; she clung to one thought. _My love. My love. For you._ Her hands roamed over her lover’s breasts, and she felt Trev’s breathing catch and release again. She ran teasing fingers over Trev’s shoulder and down her right arm, stroking the long muscles, then playing with her fingers as she kissed the inside of her elbow and then down to her hand. And then she began to do the same with her left arm, and heard Trev swallow hard.

She had often touched Trev’s stump before, helping her to dress the wound while it healed, a necessary and matter of fact sort of business, and apart from the early days when any touch caused pain the Inquisitor had never flinched from her or tried to stop her; she had seemed to appreciate Cassandra’s help. She allowed Cassandra to massage her arm when she felt the strange pain where the hand was missing.

When she wore the artificial arm the stump was hidden by the mechanism, inaccessible. Since she had acquired it she rarely went out with only a folded sleeve. When she took the arm off in the privacy of her own quarters, she did not hide the stump, but she also did not seem to want Cassandra to notice it. It was a subtle thing, simply the consistency with which she positioned herself in relation to her lover so that her left arm was not the one within reach, should Cassandra choose to reach out. On the rare occasions when others saw her without the artificial arm, Cassandra had noticed, she did the same with them.

Now there was a kind of confused tension in her that was obvious, though she said and did nothing to stop Cassandra or evade her hands and mouth. Cassandra kissed Trev’s shoulder, stroking her upper arm, and let her lips trail kisses down to the inside of her elbow, and further. She did not spend extra time on the stump; she simply explored it as she explored every other part of Trev’s body. As she did she felt Trev let out a long breath.

_All of you. Everything. Always._

And after that neither of them were thinking about Trev’s arm.

 


	5. Departure

Trev’s arm, Dagna said, looking at it with immense satisfaction, was as perfect as she could make it. For the time being, at any rate. There was _research_ she wanted to do, of course. She still had some ideas. She had heard things about work the smith named Wade had done recently, and wanted to consult with him. But for now, she was done.

The basic arm had been adapted and modified and adapted again and again until it was mostly comfortable and mostly had the capability to do most of the things that Trev wanted. The grasping tool was satisfactory for general use and could hold almost anything with a good degree of control. It was not perfect for holding reins, but it would do.

An almost arms-length dagger had been slotted into the mechanism, not as a replacement for the grasping mechanism but as a permanent addition. It could be loosed to spring out beyond the gripper for use in battle, locking into place, and it was easy to reset. It rarely jammed now. They had settled on three additional small blades that could be flung at an adversary with reasonable force; as they could not be made perfectly accurate they were unlikely to do much damage, but the element of surprise was useful, and Dagna had made them of a light material that did not add much to the overall weight.

If it was needed, a grappling iron could replace the gripping mechanism, with a coil of fine rope, and it could be propelled for a short distance. A small change in the structure would allow the user to winch the grapple closer. It could be used to hook enemies as some rogues did, but Trev had never bothered to learn that technique, preferring to rely on her own agility, and so that was not the benefit that it might have been. She had managed to use it to haul herself up short walls, but the process was slow and it did not have the reach of a real grappling iron. On the whole she did not treat the thing very seriously.

The Arcanist had added to the runes that allowed Trev to send heat and cold from the arm; now there was a rune for protection as well, and one to amplify the force of her attacks. Cassandra thought that these were far more practical than the ones that used ice and fire.

“Don’t be shy about coming to Denerim if you need adjustments,” said Dagna cheerfully, as she prepared to leave. “Or if you want to see what else can be done with it. I think Sera might have some new ideas for it when I talk to her.”

“I’m sure she will,” said Trev drily.

*        *        *

Dagna was gone now, and so were many of Skyhold’s residents. A good number of the servants and staff had elected to stay and work for the new College, solving the Inquisition’s problem of finding them suitable positions. Only the Council remained on the administrative side, with a small contingent of soldiers and staff to manage the final arrangements. Josephine had completed almost all her diplomatic duties, and Cullen had finished disbanding the army, both in an orderly fashion that balanced obligations and self-interest, despite the hopes of some that the Inquisition’s dissolution might result in advantages to them. Profits—and yes, there were some—had disappeared into a maze of complicated and entirely opaque Antivan investments, and should pay excellent dividends over time.

Trev and Cassandra had met with Leliana and Harding in the ruins of Haven, ostensibly to view the rebuilding. In truth it was to get away from the eyes and ears that they knew lurked in Skyhold, for they wanted to discuss what could, should, and would be done about Solas’s threat. It was obvious from the things she had to say that Trev had been thinking a good deal about this, and Cassandra was encouraged: her lover had not taken such a strong interest in anything other than her arm in quite some time.

In the end they agreed that they did not yet have enough information to know what would be most effective. But those who had been prominent in the Inquisition—Trev, Cassandra, and Leliana—all knew that he would be watching them, and so they must for the most part pass the standard of resistance on to others who had been less noticeable. In part that meant Charter and Harding. “No matter what comes next, no matter who takes action, information will be needed,” said Harding. “So Charter and I will rebuild the Nightingale’s network from scratch. But we’ll be checking the backgrounds of everyone _very_ carefully before we take them on. Solas had spies everywhere, and some of them were in our network. Many have fled now, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t leave more in place. We’ll be watching.” Her mouth was tight.

“If you send people to the Seeker hold, I will give them a place,” said Cassandra.

“We’ll do that,” said Harding. “We already have Asher there, of course, but it would be useful to have others.”

Their last duty was to formally transfer the ownership of Skyhold to Fiona, as the leader of the College of Enchanters, and Josephine was determined that the ceremony should be held with as much pomp as was possible under their reduced circumstances. Some mages who had not aligned with the Circle in Val Royeaux had come to join the College, so their overall numbers, while not high, were respectable, and they would certainly not rattle around Skyhold like a handful of beans in a storage pot. Invitations were sent to a number of important people. The Chantry politely declined the invitation to Divine Victoria, but sent a representative of the Chantry Circle—or more accurately, Leliana said, a spy. Both Orlais and Ferelden sent parties with high ranking officials as witnesses. “I think they want to be sure we are really disbanding,” said Trev to Cassandra ruefully. And of course there were those, nobles or otherwise, who had become friends of the Inquisition over the years, come to pay their respects for the last time.

And so Trev stood on the stairs to the Great Hall before all who had gathered, and made a final speech as Inquisitor, and handed over an enormous key that served no real purpose, and Fiona made a speech that was equally pompous, filled with assurances of the College’s good will towards all, for the benefit of observers. And then they bowed to each other, everyone cheered, and Fiona entered the hall and Trev descended the stairs.

“At least I won’t have to make those kinds of fatuous speeches again,” she said glumly to Cassandra, under the roar of the crowd, before she was surrounded by well-wishers.

The final conversations with the Council were amicable, and gave Cassandra hope that Trev's friendships with them had been recovered. The Inquisitor had apologized some time before, first to Josephine, who had accepted her apology freely and seemed very glad to do so, and then to Leliana, who had been less trusting but also seemed prepared to take it at face value. She had made a point of wishing Cullen well with his project, and agreed to help him spread the word as she travelled. The affection for each other that had carried them through so much seemed to have been restored.

“You will be leaving tomorrow with Cassandra for the Hunterhorns?” Josephine said to Trev after the nobles finally left her alone.

“Yes. I am not sure what I will do in the long term, but that is our destination for now.”

 _For now?_ Cassandra blinked.

“Come to see us in Antiva," said Josephine, and then hesitated, looking uncharacteristically unsure of herself. "These last months—I think we have not been ourselves. I would like a chance to enjoy our friendship without the stresses that circumstances have put on it, and I know that I also speak for Leliana in this."

Trev seemed caught by surprise and somewhat at a loss for words. "Yes," she said finally. "Thank you. I think that the fault has been mine, but I do care for both of you greatly, Josephine. The thought that our friendship had been harmed by my behaviour was—well. I would be very glad to come. Though it may not be for a time, as I suspect that once we are in the Hunterhorns we won't want to travel for a while."

“The two of you deserve some time together without having to deal with political emergencies all the time,” said the Ambassador with a smile. And then she sighed. “We all do. I am _tired_. The last of my work here will be finished in a week, and then I will go home. It cannot be too soon.”

Trev grinned. “You will have time to rest, surrounded by your family?”

Josephine giggled. “Perhaps rest is not _quite_ the right word for it. But at least with my family I know what to expect.”

“And you will have Leliana.”

“Yes.” Josephine looked across the yard at her lover, who was speaking with the Divine’s representative. “It is far, far too long since she had time to relax.”

Leliana had already begun to relax, Cassandra thought. There was a lightness to her now that the Seeker had not seen before; she had given over so many of the strands of her web to others. But she would come if she was needed, if she was called. That was the true legacy of the Inquisition, she thought; the bonds of friendship and loyalty, the understanding between those who had expected to die for a cause: when called, they would always come.

*        *        *

 _For now_. What did Trev mean by that, she wondered? Did she have something in mind? Did she expect to leave Cassandra to do something other than rebuild the Seekers? Did she expect Cassandra to travel with her, or stay behind?

She had always assumed that Trev would come to Nevarra with her, and Trev had shown no signs of having other plans. Trev _would_ accompany her, they had spoken of it directly. They had also spoken of travelling to visit friends at some point, but in the vague sort of way that could take years to accomplish.

They had talked a great deal about Cassandra’s intentions. The hold in the Hunterhorn Mountains of Nevarra that Cassandra had begun to call Vérité would be the seat of her work rebuilding the Seekers. It was a remote hunting lodge, inherited in complicated ways from a distant relative, and had lain unused and abandoned for decades. She had made plans to strengthen and extend it. With Cullen’s help Cassandra had found carpenters and stonemasons who were happy to travel such a distance to work on it, and the reconstruction was already underway, under Seeker Emery’s supervision.

They had not spoken of Trev’s plans, not really.

She could not believe in her own foolishness, that it had not occurred to her that Trev might want to do something other than follow her to Vérité and rest there after her years as the Inquisitor. She was not a Seeker, and although she strongly supported Cassandra’s goals they were not her own. They had agreed that others must take on the work against Solas, at least publicly, but Trev had sworn that she would show him that he was wrong. She would certainly be involved in some way in that campaign, even if it had to be in a backgrounded kind of way, and that might well take her away from Cassandra.

Had she really thought that Trev would simply sit in the Seeker hold and bake cookies? That was only the fantasy of a foolish heart.

Whatever happened in the future, Trev would come with her now, and stay there for a time. Her words probably meant nothing, beyond that Trev did not yet know what she meant to do in her new life. They would work out what was to come together.

But Cassandra found her sudden awareness of the foolishness of her expectations unsettling, as if she had stepped forward into shallow water and the solid ground beneath it had suddenly dissolved into mud and then less than mud and slipped away.

*        *        *

“It would not be wise to retire here, as it would raise hackles,” said Fiona, when they finally spoke privately, “and Divine Victoria may not regard your presence here for any length of time favourably. But there will always be a room waiting for you in Skyhold when you visit.”

Trev thanked her, and said that she would be happy to take her up on the offer when travelling. Privately, she had already said to Cassandra that she thought it would be far too strange to spend any length of time at Skyhold now that the College had taken it over.

The tapestries and accoutrements of the Inquisition had been replaced by those of the College now, and everything seemed very slightly and disturbingly unfamiliar. Both of them were happy, after the final celebratory dinner, to get back to the privacy of their room. Trev had moved out of the Inquisitor’s quarters in preparation for Fiona’s residence, taking one of the guest rooms, and Cassandra had moved with her. They had few possessions with them now; most had been sent ahead to Nevarra.

“It will be strange to be a civilian,” said Trev as she pulled off her boots and shrugged out of the hated formal wear. “But I can’t say that I’m sorry to be free of the pomp of it—and the responsibilities.”

“You cannot escape so easily,” said Cassandra. “I will still ask you for advice. And there will still be the struggle to prove Solas wrong. You will be expected to contribute there as well.”

“Ah, but that’s different,” said Trev with a grin. “I’ll be advising, not deciding. A much easier position. One can offer advice constantly and insufferably, without any ultimate responsibility for taking action, and I fully intend to do so. You will soon hope that you had not asked!”

“I will never be sorry for your advice, Trev.” Her lover had been joking, but she was not. Trev gave her a crooked smile.

“Then you shall always have it.” She sighed. “I’m glad we’re leaving tomorrow. This isn’t home any more.”

“It has changed too much,” Cassandra agreed.

Trev had curled up on the bed with Handful, who had snuggled against her belly purring. “I will miss you waking me too early in the mornings, you horrid thing,” said Trev, tickling her chin. The little cat would stay at Skyhold; they could not bring her with them to Vérité, travelling as lightly as they planned.

Cassandra sat on the bed, and the faithless animal immediately deserted Trev and demanded her attention, flopping provocatively beside her. “Clearly she will not miss _me_!” said the Inquisitor ruefully.

“Oh, I think she will,” said Cassandra. She had made plans with Fiona, though Trev did not know it: Handful would travel with a trade caravan and come to Vérité eventually. But she would keep that a secret for now, as she was not quite certain when it could happen.

They came together in love for the last time in Skyhold that night, as they had so many times before; but it felt like a coming together in sorrow, and Cassandra was not sure why. It was a new beginning, after all.


	6. On the road

They left early the next day, before most people had awakened; there was no point in waiting, as all their farewells had been said. They would travel westwards, down from Skyhold’s pass and along the Imperial Highway into Orlais proper. They would be close enough to Orzammar that a side trip would be possible, for Trev had never seen it, but when Cassandra had mentioned the possibility Trev had refused. “Not now,” she had said. “I don’t want to be underground.”

They were always watchful when they travelled; for years it had been an absolute requirement for safety, and even with the lands at peace and the roads patrolled regularly and reliably, there were still wild animals or the occasional band of brigands to be careful of, especially as they got further from Skyhold. Now Trev’s watchfulness had a brittle edge, and she scanned for danger with an unnatural alertness and hair-triggered tendency to startle at unexpected sounds and movements.

But somewhat surprisingly, this tense vigilance was an intermittent thing; much of the time she simply seemed distracted. She spent a great deal of time watching the sky, the slow movement of clouds and the skeins of birds in constantly shifting patterns that drew lines that crossed and crossed again in endless variation. If they stopped by a stream she would became transfixed by the moving water, the light and colours and shadows and the details simultaneously hidden and revealed. Cassandra was content to let her attention wander, though she had never been so careless before; her own habits of solitary travel were such that she was not likely to relax her guard herself. She did not mind allowing her lover that freedom, especially if it meant that she relaxed a little.

They avoided Halamshiral, though Celene was in residence. “I may still be the Inquisitor,” said Trev, “but there is no Inquisition, and that means I’m not required to pay my respects and play politics.” And Cassandra was more than happy to agree.

Not many people recognized them, fewer as they got further from Skyhold. They carried letters of introduction and tokens of their rank, in case of problems, but had put aside their insignia and rode in plain armour, of excellent quality but otherwise unremarkable. They passed many other travellers; the roads were for the most part safe now.

They took their time, buying food in the villages they passed, hunting a little for fresh meat. Trev was not nearly as expert with a bow as she was with daggers, but the loss of her hand did not affect her ability with it very much. She was certainly competent enough to put meat in their pot regularly. “It seems a little unfair that the weapon I use least is the one I kept most of my skills at,” she said ruefully as they picked the meat off small bones one night by the fire, “but I suppose at least my stomach can be thankful for it.”

On a few occasions they left the highway to take lesser roads and revisit places they had been while on campaign, places Trev had evidently marked in her mind as having some significance. She said only that she wanted to see them under better circumstances. None of them were important, at least not as measured by any qualifications Cassandra could see, though some of the wilder places were very beautiful. There were a few spots where they had fought tough battles of one kind or another. There were some small villages, charming but unremarkable. You could see the scars from the years of war, but they were fading. Perhaps that was it. It was a kind of reconstruction of reality, Cassandra thought, to return in a time of peace to places where you had seen only death and destruction and horror.

“We really did something,” Trev said one evening as they sat by their fire in a small grove a half day’s journey from Verchiel, near a village that had had a small rift open in it. Since the rift had been closed the villagers who survived had returned and rebuilt. They had passed through on market day, and found the place bustling with cheerful activity. “Sometimes I forget how much has changed since Corypheus fell.”

“Yes,” said Cassandra. “It is the people like these villagers that we really helped. The politics—ugh. It was necessary, it allowed us to do what we needed to do, but this is what matters.”

Trev sighed. “The Inquisition had the power to do so much good. And yet we were corrupted from within. Maybe Solas was right.”

“No!” said Cassandra, and then was surprised by her own vehemence. “He may be right to say that all organizations will be corrupted eventually,” she continued more moderately, “for you cannot prevent individuals from thinking and doing things that benefit themselves and not the greater good. But the elves are no better than humans in this. Destroying the world and rebuilding what existed before will not prevent corruption from rising again; Solas is lying to himself if he thinks he can make a better world. But if at least some people are honest and try to cleave to the heart of what they are, if they can be aware of the dangers, even an organization that has been corrupted can work to root out rot and make amends for evil done in their name.”

Trev frowned at her. “Do you think the Inquisition should not have disbanded?”

Cassandra hesitated. “No. It was time. We really had no purpose left, beyond standing against Solas, and I think that to do so formally—ach, to use a military organization and build formal military alliances would only confirm his beliefs. And we would have been too predictable. But I do believe that the Seekers can be rebuilt to be something better than they were. To be made to be more aware, to work more honestly against corruption, to serve truth and benefit all. Perhaps there may be the beginnings of something there.” She was silent for a moment, then said, “I must believe that.”

Trev looked at her for a long time. “If anyone can build such an organization and make it work, it’s you,” she said finally. “I’ve said it before, but I really mean it. And I’m glad you have this purpose.”

“As am I,” said Cassandra.

*        *        *

There were still bandits, of course; the return of order could never eliminate all who chose to prey on others. But now most were clearly predators and not simply the desperate. Two women travelling together, even wearing well used armour of good quality, must have looked like easy prey, especially when one had an artificial arm.

It was the first test of Trev’s fighting skills against real enemies, and she had had no difficulty in taking down her opponents. “I know I’m not as good a fighter as I was, but I can still hold my own,” she said that evening as they sat cleaning their weapons, with an air of satisfaction far greater than anything Cassandra had seen in recent weeks.

“You are still better than most,” Cassandra agreed. And it was true.

Trev seemed a little steadier and less reactive after that, relaxing to a more normal state of readiness. But she was still distracted, and Cassandra wondered what she was thinking. Whatever it was, it did not seem to make her particularly happy.

*        *        *

It was strange to visit Montsimmard, and see the seat of the Orlesian Wardens empty. There were caretakers there, but otherwise the great keep loomed above them with vacant eyes as they rode through the city. “They have gone to Weisshaupt,” said the man who met them at the door when they stopped there to enquire. “That’s all I know. They hired me to keep the place up, yes? That’s all I care about.”

“Blackwall said there’s upheaval within the Order, disagreement about their future,” said Trev as they rode away. “I suppose they’re meeting at Weisshaupt to decide that.”

 _The Wardens must rebuild too_ , thought Cassandra. _They too set a goal to serve and were turned from it, and must find their way again. I would like to know how they manage it. Perhaps Blackwall will send word._

They decided to stay a full day in Montsimmard, to replenish their supplies and make small repairs. There were acquaintances here they could have called on, but they chose to take a room at a small inn. The acquaintances were not good friends, and neither wished to be displayed as a social trophy and probed for details regarding the Inquisition’s dissolution.

The food served at the inn was plain but good, and they spent a pleasant evening in the common room, chatting with others. Later they slid into a bed that was somewhat lumpy but supplied with clean sheets and considerably softer than the ground, and Cassandra reached for her lover. They made love sometimes when on the road, but both preferred a bed, where one could move without worrying so much about drafts and awkwardly placed rocks. They were a settled couple, after all, not two people who had only recently come together and could not keep their hands off each other.

They made love sometimes on the road, but lately not so much. Cassandra was looking forward to a very pleasant interval.

It _was_ very pleasant. She loved the slow sensuality of kissing Trev, and could do so endlessly, and Trev seemed to love kissing her every bit as much. And then, of course, there was the other touching, the exploration, the slow rousing of breath and body until both were satisfied.

It was very pleasant, but something was missing, some spark… something. It was not that Trev did not respond; she did. It was not that Trev did not touch her; she did. But Trev seemed far more interested in touching than in being touched. Of course there were times when this had been true before, for both of them, but not for weeks at a time. And afterwards Trev smiled at Cassandra and kissed her again, and then rolled over away from her, instead of staying tangled together in pleasant exhaustion until sleep claimed them.

Trev had found release in her arms, shivering, but it had been slow to build and had seemed muted. Her own final release had been pleasant, but no more. _Well_ , she told herself, _not every time leaves you helpless and gasping. You know that_.

But she also knew that she was at least partly responding to Trev, and Trev had not been left utterly helpless and gasping since—

Since before she lost her hand.

For some reason Cassandra had not realized this before. She had been badly unsettled during the weeks when Trev had not wanted to be intimate, and then when they had finally begun to make love again she had been so relieved that she had not noticed that things were not entirely returning to normal.

_It will take time. She is still adjusting. It is not important._

None of it was important. And all of it was. She would be glad to be back on the road tomorrow.

 _It is not just our love-making_ , she thought uneasily the next day as they rode on. _She is far too quiet, too dull, and it is not just that she is distracted. How have I not noticed this before?_

Cassandra wasted no words, preferring not to speak if there was no reason to do so, but Trev often commented on things they passed on the road, even if only briefly, and she liked listening to Trev talk. Sometimes they got into long, intense discussions, but her lover was also content to ride in silence for long periods, and that was very restful.

But now Trev was saying very little, far less than usual. She answered readily enough if Cassandra spoke, but she did not often initiate conversation. There was a listlessness in her that was unsettling. It was not just when they made love that her responses were muted.

 _It is as if she is not quite here_.

*        *        *

Val Royeaux had not changed; Val Royeaux never changed, Cassandra thought as they rode through the Sun Gates at midday, wincing at the glare from the gold. Val Royeaux would always overwhelm the senses, and take advantage of the unwary when doing so.

Here they would stay in the Grand Cathedral itself. “Vivienne would be offended if we did not accept her hospitality,” Cassandra had said, and Trev had agreed, with a kind of quiet resignation quite unlike herself. In the past she would have privately grumbled a great deal about the performance of etiquette required by Orlais in general and the Chantry in particular. But now she made no comment.

They had to wait for a little time in the receiving rooms for their private audience, and did so in silence for the most part. Cassandra did a doubletake when Vivienne swept in. The Divine’s robes were traditionally modest, though made from the very best of materials and embroidered with gold thread, but somehow those Vivienne wore had an elegance and air of _savior faire_ that the Seeker had never before seen. Cassandra was not certain whether it was the subtly adjusted cut of the robes themselves or the way in which they were worn; Vivienne had always had more presence than any ten other people combined, standing out like a dragon in a nest of brontos, slim and beautiful and absolutely lethal. Even her headpiece had achieved a certain gravity, and that was something Cassandra would have thought impossible to achieve. Somehow the mage had brought _fashion_ to the holy wardrobe. It was an extraordinary achievement. _If she brings nothing else that is new and imaginative to the position_ , thought Cassandra with a certain degree of cynicism, _she will certainly be remembered for this_.

“Darlings,” said Divine Victoria with the air of a cat who had claimed a particularly comfortable pillow, “it is so very good to see you again. You are looking well, Inquisitor.”

“I am Inquisitor no longer, Most Holy,” said Trev, with a smile that did not quite reach her eyes.

“You will always be Inquisitor to me,” said Her Perfection firmly, “as I hope that I will always be Vivienne to you. It is important to remember where we came from when our lives change.”

“You are right, of course, Vivienne,” said Trev politely, bowing, but Cassandra could see the stiff line of her back.

The Divine turned to Cassandra. “And how is your reconstruction of the Seekers proceeding, Cassandra? Will we soon see some of your fledglings in Val Royeaux?”

“I think it is unlikely that you will see any for some years, Most Holy,” said Cassandra. “I have found a few good people who survived Lucius’ massacre, and we are working together to develop a new training regime. And we are still building, quite literally, our hold. It is remote, but I wanted a place where there are no distractions from the work we need to do when we finally start to train new Seekers. It will take time.”

Vivienne did not trouble to remonstrate with Cassandra for calling her by her title, though the Seeker knew she had noted it. “I suppose such delays are necessary, but I look forward to the time when the Seekers will return to their home in Val Royeaux,” she said. “The rebuilding of the Templars has gone more quickly, under the guidance of my dear friend Knight-Vigilant Greagoir. We have done well with recruiting, although of course some have found other places for themselves. I trust that those Templars who have gone to the Seekers are well?”

“Very well,” said Cassandra. “Those who have come to us are working primarily as carpenters and stonemasons for now. It must have been difficult for Greagoir, with so much of the Templar hierarchy destroyed. But there are good people in the ranks who only lacked experience, and he would be able to recognize those with the most potential.”

“Indeed,” said Vivienne, who having made her point was willing to allow herself to be distracted. “He has found some excellent people and trained them well, and I have been very pleased with their work. And is the College settling in well to their new home?”

“They were arguing about obscure scholarly issues when we left, and sending for references from other libraries to augment their own,” said Trev. “Not that they did not have a substantial library already, after bringing everything they could get their hands on to add to what was already there. I don’t think I have ever seen so many books in one place. Several rooms have already been adapted to hold them, and more are needed.”

“Then you have not seen _our_ library,” said Vivienne complacently. “We must arrange for you to visit it while you are here.” Then, with a confidential tone, “You know that I am not entirely happy with the existence of the College, but your negotiations for them were eloquent.”

“It is Josephine who is the one who is eloquent,” said Trev with a smile.

“But she spoke for you, and it is because you asked that I allowed it,” said Vivienne. “I have the utmost respect for your judgement, Inquisitor. I do hope that the College does not choose to do anything foolish to betray your faith in them.”

“I am certain that they will do an excellent job at policing themselves,” said Trev firmly. “They have developed a training system that is very thorough, and there are former Templars who are working with them. I do not expect any abominations to take over Skyhold.”

“I am sure they will not,” said Vivienne, “though that is not my only concern.” And then she turned the conversation to their friends, and what they all were doing now.

“Vivienne does not like having anyone working outside her control,” said Trev afterwards to Cassandra in their rooms, after the tedious formal dinner that Vivienne had held for them. “She is not happy about the mages and templars who have chosen other paths.”

“There is nothing new in that,” said Cassandra, with a warning look. The Chantry had ears everywhere, as no one knew better than she did. “Every Divine looks to consolidate power in order to make her work more effective and serve the dissemination of the Chant to all corners of Thedas. And it is unusual for the Divine to have to deal with cohorts that are not under her control.”

“True enough, and certainly I wish her well,” said Trev, taking the warning, and said no more on it. “Vivienne spoke of the Seekers returning home,” she said then. “You lived here for many years, and it occurs to me that I’ve never asked you: does Val Royeaux feel like your home?”

“No,” said Cassandra slowly. She had not really thought about it in a long time. “No, I lived here for many years, but it is too different from my upbringing.”

“I did not realize that Nevarra felt like home to you,” said Trev in surprise.

“It does not and did not, save when I was very young, before my parents died,” said Cassandra. “And that was before I was conscious of the idea of home at all, save by default. I left early to join the Seekers, and then lived in barracks. The barracks was more of a home to me than my uncles’ estate ever was. A barracks is a barracks, though; it is not homely. It is only the people in it that make it more.

“As for Nevarra, you know that I have never been overly fond of the Pentaghasts, and that affects my view. But even though it does not feel like my home, still I spent my first twelve years there, and it is very different from Orlais. Val Royeaux, where I have spent most of my life as an adult, has always seemed foreign to me, though I am quite comfortable in it.”

Trev gave her a crooked smile. “I see what you mean. Ostwick is comfortable because it’s familiar, but it’s not home, and after I left I never was anywhere long enough to settle.” The smile faded. “Skyhold was the first place where I felt that I had something that was mine, a place to set my feet.” She sighed. “But really, it was not the place but the people. And now we are all dispersed.”

“Then you and I must be home for each other,” said Cassandra lightly, and put a hand on her knee.

“Yes,” said Trev after a minuscule hesitation, and leaned to kiss her.

Cassandra thought that Trev found the whole experience of visiting Val Royeaux to be unsettling. She had first come to the city as a mercenary, a nobody, and then returned as the Inquisitor, who drew attention both because of the threat of Corypheus and because she had a very real impact on the Orlesian political situation. That change had been an adjustment, one she had complained about, but she had gotten used to it. Now she was Inquisitor no longer, though the Orlesians still gave her the courtesy title.

Divine Victoria arranged for a ball to be held while they were there. Ostensibly it was to celebrate their visit, but in reality, it was to fête a minor noble who had become a strong supporter of Most Holy’s policies. That truth became very evident on the night. Vivienne gave a short but exquisitely tuned speech welcoming them, congratulating Trev on her past achievements. She mentioned the Inquisition’s support for the Chantry, and by inference her own position as well, even though Trev had been careful never to take a stance during the negotiations and discussions around the Divine’s election. The dissolution of the Inquisition was noted and the organization and the members present were thanked and effectively dismissed from current political concerns.

After the formalities, the guests mingled, and there was food and drink. People came to speak with Trev and Cassandra, and were unfailingly courteous, but the crowd around Count Delorian made it clear that their presence was not of any particular importance and only an excuse for adjustments and maneuvering in more important relationships. Even those who owed the Inquisition a debt of gratitude for actions taken during the years of war were somewhat perfunctory in their attentions; those debts were no longer relevant in the Game.

“I have become a souvenir,” Trev said bitterly to Cassandra when they stood for a moment entirely alone in the middle of the noise and spectacle and fluttering, carefully judged exchanges.

“Vivienne’s courtesy has always been extended with regard primarily to achieving leverage and power,” said Cassandra quietly in Trev’s ear. “I am surprised that you are surprised.” With all the activity and noise around them making it so hard to hear, it was for once reasonably safe to say such things.

“I am not _surprised_ , exactly,” said Trev. “But I haven’t quite decided whether to be offended or not.”

Cassandra shrugged. “I must take some heed of Divine Victoria, for I am still on her Council and must deal with her with regard to the future of the Seekers, but you need no more from her than she needs from you. It is not worth your time.”

Trev was right, though. In terms of the Great Game, she was valueless now, save as an entertainment. Both of them had become non-entities, for Cassandra was no longer the Right Hand.

 _But I do not care_ , she thought. _In many ways it is a relief. I wish that it did not bother Trev so. She is not normally jealous of her rank; it must be the falsity of the performance that disturbs her_.

Trev’s change in status was not only evident at the ball. Vivienne was cordial enough, but it was clear that her focus was on more important issues than hosting her former leader. That was to be expected, though it made for a singularly boring visit. They kept their stay in Val Royeaux as brief as it could be within the bounds of courtesy, and both were glad to leave after three days.

Trev said very little when they resumed their journey, riding in a thoughtful silence. She did not seem as distracted as she had recently been, but Cassandra could not tell what she was thinking.

“Will you return the Seekers to Chantry control?” Trev asked finally, as they sat by their fire that evening.

“I am not certain,” said Cassandra. “It makes sense, for we have always been the arm of the Divine’s will, but I find that I am not inclined to. I do not trust Vivienne, or approve of everything she does. She keeps too many secrets: even I do not know who her Left Hand is now. I will continue to serve on her Exalted Council for the time being, as she has asked me to do so even though I am no longer her Right Hand; but I will not commit the Seekers until I can see her direction—and ours—more clearly. It may be that we will need to stand independently.”

“She would not be happy with that,” said Trev. “She may have agreed to allow the Inquisition mages to form the College again, but she doesn’t like it. She’ll try to co-opt them. But given her actions after Corypheus fell, Fiona isn’t likely to trust that her approval now is either genuine or permanent, and that could cause problems. Vivienne isn’t happy about the Silver Shield, either, or the fact that some Templars have joined you: she wants all Templars under Chantry authority, and most certainly the Seekers. She resents your hesitation.”

“Her need to control everything is very great,” said Cassandra. “I think that she will spend a good deal of energy trying to consolidate her power. That is what worries me: in so doing, she could do great harm. Sometimes an open hand is better than a fist.”

“Certainly she will have spies everywhere,” agreed Trev. “It is something to watch for, with the Seekers.”

“Yes,” said Cassandra glumly. And Trev said no more.

*        *        *

Cumberland was an oddity. Although part of Nevarra, its situation as an important port city made it quite cosmopolitan, and it had developed some distinctive quirks. Both Cassandra and Trev liked it, and they planned to stay for a few days.

The law prohibited weapons in the wealthy, gated parts of Cumberland. They carried only daggers on the day they went to walk there, and left them with the guards at the gate. It felt strange to go unarmed, but in some ways pleasant: there was a lightness to it. The city in those districts was very beautiful. There were flat-cobbled public squares with imposing statues of heroes, and shaded courtyards where one could order a drink and sit beneath green leaves. The proprietors of such cafés often kept cages of songbirds; the background sound was pleasant and provided a level of privacy for patrons as they spoke.

“At least they had the sense to build the mausoleums well away from the city proper,” said Cassandra. “Even as Cumberland has grown, they have kept them separate. In Nevarra City the distance was too short, and the landscape too limited for building, and as the city grew it came up to the walls of the Necropolis. But only the poorest live in that area; the constant moaning is too annoying for the wealthy to tolerate.”

“I have been looking forward to seeing Nevarra City,” said Trev. “But I am not sure how you feel about that. If you don’t wish to go there we can pass it by.”

There was a note of enquiry in her voice. Cassandra sighed. “No, we can go there. There is business that I need to do there with a banker. It will be all right.”

Trev nodded and said no more, but her question prodded at Cassandra. She had always kept away from Nevarra City as much as she could, and that meant she had only been there twice in all the years since she had left. Both visits had been in the Divine’s service, and were not recent. Her uncle was there, with a part of her past that she did not want to revisit. Vestalus had been a hidden thorn to her for many years, though one safely tucked under a layer of callous and rarely noticed, and she did not want to change that. She was not sure how she felt about visiting the city now.

She was glad that Trev had asked, though, for she had become more and more subdued and remote as they travelled. She found she had begun to touch Trev casually more often than usual, as if to reassure herself that the Inquisitor was still really there. For Trev to ask about something that might bother her—it was reassuring.

 _It should not be reassuring_ , she thought then. _There is something wrong_. But apart from her uncharacteristic silence, Trev was behaving fairly normally. When they had been estranged, years ago, Trev had been angry and depressed—both of them had—but this was different. There was a touch of sadness, yes, but mostly she was simply vaguely distant in a way that felt unfamiliar. It was not as if there was something specific she could put her finger on, could demand an explanation of. She had tried, nonetheless; “You are very quiet these days,” she had said.

“Am I?” said Trev lightly. “I’m just thinking.” But she had not explained what she was thinking about, and had changed the subject, and something about her air had warned Cassandra off asking.

Cassandra wanted to visit the old seat of the College of Magi. There was still a small circle there, and one of the mages was very old and knew a great deal of history. She had often spoken to the woman before and found her a fount of esoteric knowledge, some of which had to do with the history of the Seekers, and she made a point of visiting the scholar whenever she visited Cumberland. “I’ll find something else to do while you see her,” Trev said, when she mentioned it. “There’s plenty to explore.”

And so Cassandra spent a very pleasant afternoon drinking tea with the old mage, and hearing stories that might or might not have any bearing on her own work. Late in the day she returned to their inn, and found Trev still gone. She was not certain whether her lover would return expecting to eat, but she herself was hungry, so she went to the common room to take supper.

She was halfway through a good lamb stew when Trev came in and sat across from her at the small table, waving to the server. She looked more cheerful than she had for some time. Cassandra felt her heart jolt hopefully.

“That looks good,” said Trev, and Cassandra smiled.

“It is.”

“I’ll have the same, then,” said Trev to the server, who had come over to take her order. “And an ale.” Then, to her lover, “Did you winkle out any new secrets from your source?”

She had already been drinking, Cassandra thought, though she was not drunk. “No, just some stories, the sorts of thing that never make it into histories; I will tell you them later, if you are interested. But it was enjoyable nonetheless. What about you?”

“I visited a number of shops,” said Trev. “I wanted a little knife to replace the one that I broke.”

“Did you find one?”

“Yes,” said Trev, “a pretty little thing, with a blade of better quality than I had before.” She took a small sheathed knife from her pouch and put it on the table.

Cassandra picked it up and took the knife from the sheath. It was simple and elegant, with a clear tawny stone with highlights of gold and green set in the hilt to catch the light, and a strong sharp blade. “This is of excellent workmanship.”

“Yes. We will have to remember this smith’s work.” Trev pushed the sheath toward her. “I got two of them, this one for you. They are matching, except for the stones. Mine is blue. This one reminded me of the colour of your eyes. I thought we’d better have _some_ difference between them, to avoid confusion. Or appropriation.” She grinned.

It was a thoughtful thing to do, and the sort of thing Trev had always done for her. Cassandra smiled at her, delighted. “Thank you.” She busied herself for a moment attaching the sheath to her belt and removing the far more workmanlike knife she had from before, which was old and of not nearly such good quality. She would sell it to a merchant tomorrow.

Trev was eating with enthusiasm, sopping up the last of the gravy with bread. She was still smiling and seemed enormously energized. Cassandra recognized the signs; she was excited about something, and more so than could be explained by the gift she had given her lover. She felt an enormous wave of relief. _She is excited and interested and_ awake _. This is my Trev, finally_. “What else?” the Seeker asked. “There is something that has caught your attention, is there not?”

Trev shoved the empty bowl aside and put her elbows on the table, leaning forward. “I met some mercenaries who had served with the Inquisition at the shop where I got the knives,” she said. “We went drinking afterwards. They’d been talking to a company that’s just come down from further north. There’s a dragon. In the mountains up past Perendale, up toward the Anderfels.”

“A dragon,” Cassandra repeated, a sinking feeling in her gut.

“I think,” said Trev, “that we should go there and deal with it.” She looked cheerful and thoroughly pleased with herself.

Cassandra stared at her. “Are you out of your mind?”

The smile began to turn into something else. “No. We’ve dealt with many dragons.”

“With a team of four people!”

“Some of those I talked to today would jump at a chance to take a dragon,” said Trev. Her tone had a defiant edge to it.

“And they have never been near a dragon, have they?” said Cassandra. She knew she sounded angry; she could not help it. She _was_ angry, furiously so, though she was not quite certain why. “They do not have the first idea of what the reality is like. They do not have the skills.”

“It is not as if most of us didn’t learn while fighting,” Trev said sullenly. “You had skills, and taught us.”

“But we already knew each other, and how we fought,” said Cassandra. “Because of that we trusted each other not to freeze or do something foolish. You say these were Inquisition soldiers, but did you know them personally? Have you actually fought with any of them? And you said they were mercenaries. Will they break a contract to go off and kill a dragon? I would not want to fight beside anyone who would do that.”

“I knew one of them, and he was a good soldier, well respected.”

“Fighting a dragon is not like fighting in battle, you _know_ this!” Cassandra could not understand why Trev was being so stubborn. “These soldiers are most likely like your brother: fools who think that they are capable of anything, until it comes to the test.”

Trev stared at her silently and said nothing for a moment, a deep line between her eyes, which seemed strangely opaque.

“Then let’s send word to Bull and Sera,” she said.

Cassandra took a breath. “No.”

“Why not? We have plenty of experience killing dragons together.”

“Because we would need to wait weeks, or even months, before they came. I want to get to Vérité.”

“We could go and return.”

“No.” Cassandra was beginning to develop a headache.

“Then that isn’t the only reason, is it?”

“There is no good reason to kill a dragon that is so far off and not bothering anyone,” said Cassandra, who was beginning to feel cornered. “And if she is up near the Anderfels she is not bothering anyone.”

“It is because I only have one hand, and cannot fight as I did.” Trev’s face was set and closed.

Cassandra looked at her. She might evade, but she would not lie. “Yes,” she said. “You are a good fighter still, Trev. But for a dragon you need to be better than good. And you are not what you were, not yet. You need more time.”

“How _much_ time?”

Cassandra made a helpless gesture. “How can I say?”

Trev looked at her for a little and then took a drink of her ale. “You can’t.”

She did not seem nearly as angry as Cassandra had expected her to be. She seemed… resigned. She had given up far more easily than the Seeker had expected. There was a stubborn edge to her surrender, a refusal to acknowledge that the Seeker was right, but it was dull, not the fierce resistance she had shown in past years when her will about something important to her was thwarted.

Cassandra did not feel as relieved as she thought she should, nor had her own anger calmed. She frowned.

“What?” said Trev.

“You did not argue as long as I expected you to,” said Cassandra.

Trev shrugged and finished her drink. “I don’t have the energy to argue about it.” She pushed back her chair. “I’m tired. Let’s go.”

Trev spent quite some time that evening cleaning and oiling the artificial hand and putting her gear in order, making small repairs and doing the maintenance required to keep things in good condition. She worked with a careful, silent precision that ignored everything else around her, including Cassandra. She did not seem angry, she just seemed somehow to have put a wall around herself.

 _I could apologize_ , thought Cassandra. _No. I do not owe an apology for speaking the truth_. Her own temper had not settled; she felt on edge. She felt as if she wanted a fight. Maker, what was she thinking? There was no reason to fight with Trev. Trev was being reasonable. She had dropped the argument. She was not in the least showing the kind of sullen resentment that she sometimes fell into when thwarted. She was not showing sadness in that irritating way that made the one who thwarted her feel guilty. She was not in the least showing any anger toward Cassandra. She was not showing anything that could be objected to.

 _Show_ something, _damn you!_ Cassandra caught herself, rubbed her temples and picked up the book she had purchased earlier in the day. _I am the one who is unreasonably out of sorts. Maybe this will calm my bad temper_.

Trev went directly to bed when she finished her work; Cassandra sat up for a while longer with the book, though her mind lost the words as soon as she read them and she knew that she would have to begin again from the start some other night. She sat up until she thought that Trev was asleep, then discovered when she stripped and slid into the bed that her lover was still very wide awake, for Trev rolled to lie over her, her kisses fierce and insistent, and something in Cassandra finally relaxed. It had been too long since Trev had been so passionately _there_ while making love, and she found herself responding in kind. But Trev would not allow her to take control, touching and teasing until Cassandra shattered and fell back all loose-limbed and breathless, Trev’s name on her lips. And then Trev pulled her close so that Cassandra’s head was on her shoulder, and Trev’s hand gentled her until she fell asleep.

It was not uncommon for Cassandra to fall asleep after finding release when she had been especially aroused; the corresponding relaxation afterwards and the trust she had for her lover made it very easy. But usually if Trev had not also climaxed she would wake Cassandra after a bit, and call her lazy, and tease her into making love again. But this time she let the Seeker sleep.

Cassandra dreamed a strange dream that night. It was dark save for the moonlight, and she was by a pool of water. She could not tell how deep the water was; the moon did not give enough light to see much.

Something was there. There were eyes looking up at her from under water, staring, lost. Something moved, slowly, sluggishly, in the mirk, something twisted, a settling weight; the eyes closed, slowly, and then opened again. There was almost a face, but she could not tell what kind of creature it belonged to; fish did not blink. Did they?

And then it was she that was blinking, in the early light of morning, realizing that Trev was up before her, unusually, and already down in the common room taking breakfast.


	7. Nevarra City

The roads between Cumberland and Nevarra City were excellent, and they made good time, but after her flurry of enthusiasm over the idea of fighting a dragon, Trev had dropped back into a withdrawn silence, saying very little. And since they left Cumberland Cassandra felt on edge, her temper flaring unreasonably at the least thing. Pulling up her horse by a road that led off to the west, she had said, “This leads to a village, but also to a track that parallels the highway for a little way. It is somewhat longer, but it goes by some ruins that no one has ever been able to account for, though that has not stopped the scholars from trying. Do you want to take it?”

Trev had said only, “Whatever you like. I don’t know the territory, so one way is as good as the other to me.”

And Cassandra had suddenly wanted nothing so much as to ride away and leave her lover behind at the crossroads. But she had stifled her rage, and only nodded. They did not leave the highway, and her temper curdled and clotted within her.

It was a shock to realize just how angry she was with Trev. There was no _reason_ to feel this way; her lover had done nothing to warrant it. Simple silence should not provoke such rage. Yet since the discussion of the dragon Cassandra had not been entirely able to shake her anger. Or perhaps it had been even longer, since—she realized that she was not quite sure when the anger had started, and that was another shock.

Cassandra was not given to introspection, and never had been; it made her feel uneasy and incompetent. But she had learned, in her years with Trev, that it was sometimes necessary for the sake of their relationship. And for Trev she would venture into an uncomfortable, unwanted examination of both herself and her lover; confusion and misunderstandings had nearly parted them permanently more than once, and she knew how deadly it could be to ignore these things. She rode on in silence, and eventually the anger faded to a manageable level and she began to think.

Trev’s interest in history would have normally made her want to see the ruins. Cassandra had suggested the possibility of that route as a kind of gift, hoping that it would inspire a pleased reaction. That it would wake her up. It was unreasonable to feel such rage simply because her lover did not take an interest in her offer. Annoyed at the insult to her kindness, perhaps, but not this blinding fury that burned as hot as the fire in Dagna’s forge.

Trev had dismissed her suggestion in a way that implied there was no value to it. That hurt. But why had it hurt so much that it made her so angry? It was annoying, yes, to have a gift disrespected, but why had it enraged her? It was no different than Trev’s reaction to other things they had encountered while travelling; she did not much seem to care much about anything these days.

She did not much care about anything, though she was a person who cared passionately. That was not a reason to feel angry, though; that was a reason to worry. Trev cared, and now did not.

 _She is unhappy_ , thought Cassandra in a sudden revelation, and wondered why she had not seen it before.

Well, of course Trev was unhappy, and of course she had known that. Trev had lost her hand—how could she not be unhappy about that? And the friends around her had been dispersing, and so much had been ending, and that was certainly another source of sadness, one Cassandra had felt herself. _Of course she has been unhappy in the last months; she had good reason for it. But she was coping so well, apart from her temper. I thought it was passing, losing its grip on her._

_But it has not passed. It has simply been masked._

Cassandra knew that feeling when grief gnawed at your sinews and lowered a gauzy hood that suffocated, and everything hurt and the world turned soft and indistinct and nothing really mattered. _I felt like that, once. When we were estranged, years ago, I cared for nothing. I would not speak to my friends, for there seemed no point. I could not see beyond myself, beyond my unhappiness; there was no room for anything else. How can I have paid so little attention that I have not seen this happening to Trev now?_

_And why does it make me angry that it is happening? There is no reason to feel angry at her._

She cast her mind back. Had Trev been angry when Cassandra was so unhappy? Well, yes, though that was a different situation; she had not been angry because Cassandra was unhappy, she had been angry because of things Cassandra had said and done. She remembered Trev’s needling. She remembered Trev blazing through Skyhold, flattening everyone who did not have the courage to stand up to her. But after the anger had faded, it left behind a dull, debilitating unhappiness. _As it has now._

Cassandra had been worrying about her lover for a very long time, ever since Trev had lost her hand. Since well before she lost her hand, when they had all feared for her life. _I’m tired of worrying_ , she thought in frustration, and then was appalled at herself. If she was tired of worrying, how much worse must it be for Trev, who had been suffering for so long?

So much had changed in Trev’s life for the better. Her health had improved; she had an artificial arm that was a wonder, and had learned to use it well. They were moving on to new things, and doing so together. But none of that seemed to matter to her.

Trev had undergone a great deal over the years, but pure stubbornness and a determination to find her way had always helped her fight through pain and sorrow. This time, though, she had not recovered from the blow. Things had gotten better, but she had not. She had not put it behind her.

Cassandra felt a flaring of anger at the thought, and caught tight hold of it. That was it. Trev had not put it all behind her. She did not appreciate how much better things were now.

Well, it was unreasonable to expect that she would have completely moved on. She had lost a hand. That was not a loss that could be recovered from so quickly or easily, like a simple injury that a healing potion could deal with, or a bad illness that took time to ride out. This had lasting consequences.

 _There are other losses that are hard to recover from. My parents were executed. I watched my brother slain before me, and thought I would die from it. But I chose to fight back, and recovered myself in that fight. I fought against my uncle, against anyone who would stand between me and justice._ She had fought, and she had prevailed. Not entirely—her uncle had prevented her from joining the Templars, sending her to the Seekers instead. She had not won that battle. But in the end the Seekers had given direction to her search for truth and justice, at least until Lucius had corrupted them. She had fought for what she wanted, and in the end she achieved it.

 _You did not fight back when you and Trev were estranged_ , said a small, argumentative voice in the back of her head. _You couldn’t. You did not know how, and you could not bring yourself even to try, except the once when Josephine prodded you. You did not have the strength. It was luck, and Trev’s courage, that found respite for you both in the end._

But then she had not known how, and Trev had figured it out. Trev _did_ know how. But now Trev had seemingly lost her courage. And anyway, that was different; that was between them, and complicated. This was a much simpler thing.

_For you._

It was the same in important ways, though. There was a need to face the problem, to acknowledge it, to take whatever action was possible and then put it behind you. She had wanted to die when Anthony died, but she had chosen to fight. But Trev was not fighting back, and had not put it behind her.

 _Battle fatigue_ , said Harding’s voice in her mind.

No. It did not need to be that complicated. It was simply strength of will. She needed to put it all behind her, and instead she was clinging to her injury, her unhappiness.

 _If you had put it all behind you, you would not be estranged from your uncle_ , said the voice.

No. That was not fair. It was not relevant. Why was she even thinking about her uncle? In any case, there were good reasons to be estranged from him. Her uncle had only accepted her, with Anthony, for the sake of duty. She thought he might have grown to become somewhat fond of her brother, but he had not cared enough to fight for justice for Anthony, and with Anthony gone he clearly had no desire to raise a child for whom he cared nothing at all. He had taken her life and shaken it up terribly when he sent her to the Seekers against her will. It had turned out well, but that did not change his disregard for her. It was hardly surprising that she was still angry at him. He had overruled her will. He had done nothing to pursue Anthony’s killers. He cared nothing for her; he was cold and remote.

_Like Trev, these last weeks?_

Cassandra was so startled that she involuntarily pulled her horse’s reins, and the mare snorted and sidled, and Trev glanced around, looking for danger. “It’s nothing,” said Cassandra curtly, and urged the horse forward.

 _You don’t like being helpless_ , said the small voice, later that night as they lay in bed and Trev breathed softly beside her, having finally gone back to sleep after another nightmare woke them both. _Maybe you don’t want to see it in those you love_.

Nonsense. Everyone was weak sometimes, and needed support. Helping others who needed help did not make her angry.

_But you haven’t helped her. She’s still unhappy. She is the person you care about most, and you have not helped her._

But she had tried, over and over again, until she did not know what to do.

_You have not helped her, any more than Vestalus helped you._

Vestalus. She had planned simply to pass through Nevarra City without seeing him, as she had done every time she had come within range of the capital before. She did not wish to see him. She did not wish to think of him. The thought of him raised a complicated set of emotions that she did not wish to feel, a frantic mix of fear and anger and the desperation and helplessness of a trapped animal. A trapped child.

And the more she thought of him the more angry she felt with Trev.

She did not want to feel angry with Trev; Trev did not deserve her fury. She began to realize that not all the anger was for Trev. The nearness of Nevarra City had roused uncomfortable feelings. It had happened before, but it had never mattered, because Trev had not been with her.

It was not Trev’s fault that her anger at her uncle spilled over to splash against others. Trev was doing the best she could; if it was imperfect, well, that was what people were. It was not cowardice, it was pain. Yes, she was remote and detached, as Vestalus had been, but she was suffering. No one behaved normally when they suffered.

For the first time, she thought of Vestalus’ losses. She had lost her parents, but he had lost a brother and then a nephew. Perhaps they had not been close—she realized she did not know—but surely at some time he and Matthias must have cared for each other? And it was a time when the families of conspirators were being purged; Anthony and she had survived only because they were children, and it was the elevated position of Vestalus in the Mortalitasi that had saved him. There had been a great deal going on at that time that she had been too young to understand.

Vestalus had taken his brother’s children in when no other Pentaghasts had offered, afraid of the contamination of the conspiracy. That was a point in his favour.

He was not a warm man, and rarely spoke to her. But then, she rarely saw him speak to anyone privately unless visitors came; he was usually secreted away with his books and papers.

Cole had said that he missed her. She had dismissed it at the time as nonsense and made sure to forget about it. Vestalus had never shown her affection, they had not been close, how could he miss her? But she thought of it now and was uncertain. Cole saw things that others did not.

She realized, thinking about it, that there was a great deal about her uncle that she did not know. That in many ways she knew nothing of him.

It did not matter. Their history and her anger and the question of whether she had judged him accurately were irrelevant. She was no longer helpless with regard to her uncle, and there was certainly no need to change things between them.

*        *        *

They rode into Nevarra City late in the day, along a section of wall that edged the Grand Necropolis; it was just possible to see the tops of the buildings over the tall walls. Cassandra did not tell her what it was, and Trev did not ask. Likely she assumed it was simply part of the city proper.

Once through the gates, Cassandra led them down the wide streets toward the river. Most of the inns were in that quarter, as the Minater was so important for trade and travel, and Cassandra knew of a good one, clean, well-run, and not terribly expensive.

“Is every resident who has ever lived in Nevarra City commemorated here?” said Trev as they rode past another row of dramatically posed statues. She seemed to have come a little more awake as they entered the city.

Cassandra smiled. “No, only the heroes. But Nevarra has a lot of heroes; trying to acquire that title is a national pastime.”

“Clearly either your people are unusually heroic or your definitions are unusually inclusive,” muttered Trev, looking at a stern young man impaled by the claws of a dragon, his sword raised ineffectively above his head.

“Ah,” said Cassandra, “that is Karl-Tylus Pentaghast. He was stubborn about becoming a dragon hunter against the wishes of his father, and equally stubborn about killing his first dragon. It was unfortunate that it was also his last dragon, and that the shock of hearing of his death killed his father, making him also the end of that particular line of Pentaghasts. He was a very foolish young man. But he did stay alive long enough to deal the death blow, and in Nevarra that is considered heroic.”

“Do you know the stories of _all_ the heroes who have statues here?” said Trev, staring.

“A great many,” admitted Cassandra. “When I was young I collected their tales. Not so much of the great generals, but I wanted very much to be a dragon hunter myself, and studied them obsessively. Karl-Tylus was a family member, as well as a cautionary tale.”

“And is there a statue to you?” said Trev, sounding fascinated. “I mean, you’re a dragon hunter many times over.”

“Ugh,” said Cassandra. “If there is, I do not want to know about it. But perhaps we could arrange for one to be put up to you while we are here, if we can find a way to pretend that you have Nevarran blood in you.”

Trev laughed, for the first time in a long time. It was more of a chuckle, really, but it was better than nothing, and Cassandra was very glad to hear it.

They were dismounting in the courtyard of the inn when Cassandra found herself saying to the Inquisitor, “I would like to stay here for two or three days. Apart from the business with my banker, I want to arrange to see my uncle.”

Trev, turning from handing her horse’s reins to an ostler, fell over a bucket. “Your… uncle?”

Cassandra nodded and busied herself with her saddlebags. Trev picked herself up, stood immobile for a moment, and then turned to do the same.

*        *        *

Cassandra sent a message off first thing the next morning. She had spent far too much time on it, trying to decide what to write. She did not want to be too friendly, but she also did not want to be hostile.

 _Uncle_ ,

No. She did not want to emphasize their relationship. A simple Greetings would be better.

 _I hope this note finds you well. I am in Nevarra City for several_ —no, make it shorter— _for three days while en route to the Hunterhorns with the former Inquisitor Trevelyan_. Ugh, you are babbling. He doesn’t need to know all that.

_Inquisitor Trevelyan accompanies me_

_I am travelling with Inquisitor Trevelyan_

_I wondered if it would be possible to meet_

_If it is convenient I would like to_

_perhaps I could visit you at the Necropolis_

_perhaps we could_

Ugh. Why was something so simple so difficult?

It took the better part of half an hour, but finally she had something that she was, if not satisfied with, at least willing to send.

_Greetings. I hope this note finds you well. I am travelling with Inquisitor Trevelyan, and we are in Nevarra City for three days. If it is convenient perhaps we could meet briefly while I am here._

_Cassandra Pentaghast_

A reply came within two hours; barely enough, she thought, for the message to be delivered and responded to. The speed of the reply was slightly unnerving.

_Cassandra,_

_I would be delighted to meet with you. Would you and Inquisitor Trevelyan take dinner with me this evening, at seven o’clock?_

_Vestalus Pentaghast_

“My uncle wishes us to take dinner with him this evening,” said Cassandra to Trev, who was sitting on their bed replacing a worn leather strap on her cuirass.

Her lover had said nothing about Cassandra’s statement that she wished to visit Vestalus, but she had been considerably more alert the previous evening than she had been in some time. She had not said much, but she had seemed thoughtful rather than vague and distracted. Now she looked at Cassandra with a carefully neutral expression. “Both of us?”

“He mentioned you by name.”

“What about you?” said Trev. “Do you want me to be there, or would you prefer to see him by yourself?”

“I—would like you to be there,” said Cassandra, swallowing. She could not imagine having the courage to do this without Trev.

“Then of course I’ll go,” said Trev.

“Thank you,” said Cassandra, a little faintly.

Trev looked at her hard. “Cassandra—you have not spoken much about your uncle, but I know there’s bad blood between you. Is there anything I should know before we go?”

Cassandra hesitated. How could she explain the complicated feelings she had about her uncle? She could not really even explain it to herself.

“I do not know how to explain,” she said finally. “I have hated my uncle for a long time, and done my best to put him out of my mind. But I am not certain that I have been fair to him. I don’t even know why I sent a message to him now, after so long.”

Trev reached out and took Cassandra’s hand in hers. “Can you tell me why you hate him?”

She had never spoken about it to anyone, not really. Trev knew parts of her story, but she had left her uncle out of most of it. Leliana knew everything about it, she was certain, but if so, she was the only one, and she had heard very little of it from Cassandra. So much of it seemed so petty, when she thought of putting it into words. But Trev would not judge her. Trev was not always rational about her own family, and would understand.

And so she began to speak. She was not a good storyteller, not like Varric. She could not make a tale of it. Things were disjointed, and out of order. She could not prevent her pain and anger from showing at times, and her confusion. But Trev did not let go of her hand, and Trev listened through it all without a word, only making an encouraging sound once in a while.

“I was a child,” said Cassandra in the end. “I saw things as a child. I do not know, now, if what I saw was all of it.”

“Likely it was not,” said Trev, “but it was part of it, and it was real.”

“Yes,” said Cassandra, comforted, and then went downstairs to have a message sent.

*        *        *

Travelling lightly as they did, they did not carry much with them. They had given the chambermaid a set of clothing when they arrived and asked for it to be laundered, and tipped her to ensure speed, so they had clean clothes to wear that evening. Cassandra had her Seeker tabard, tucked away in her bags; she shook it out and put it on over her armour. She would go to her uncle as what she was, what he had made her. It was a defence and a challenge and an acknowledgement.

Trev might still be the Inquisitor—she would bear that title for life—but she had put aside the accoutrements that accompanied it. She went in plain cloth and leather and mail, all unadorned.

They hired a carriage to take them to Vestalus’ estate, deep in the Grand Necropolis. Trev gaped like a farmer as they rode the wide, elegant streets between the great mansions and palaces that were its tombs. “But this is a _city_!” she said. “Is it really completely empty?”

“Apart from the dead,” said Cassandra drily. “Who are sometimes quite noisy enough to give the impression that the city is alive, late at night when all is quiet.”

The Inquisitor shook her head, bemused. “These crypts are more impressive than some of the mansions in Orlais,” she said.

“Families maintain them and improve them, and often they are more grand than the homes of the living,” said Cassandra, glad to have something to talk about. Her nerves had begun to unsettle her stomach, and she was not certain that she was going to be able to eat. “The bigger ones have elaborate gardens and ballrooms and require staff for their upkeep; the extravagance is a sign of status. The workers do not live in the Necropolis, though, and return to their homes each night.”

“That is—amazing,” said Trev.

“It is foolishness,” said Cassandra dismissively. “And foolhardy, when spirits come to inhabit the bodies of the dead. And my uncle is one of the biggest fools of them all.”

Vestalus’ estate was large, though not as impressive as some of the tombs. It was marked with the insignia of the Mortalitasi, with wide marble stairs leading up to elaborately carved doors. A servant led the carriage and driver away down a side passage; they had been paid for the whole evening and would wait in the servants’ quarters until Cassandra and Trev were ready to leave. A second servant in an elaborate uniform bowed and led them within.

Vestalus was waiting for them in his study. There were more books than ever, Cassandra thought, although he had evidently made some effort to tidy up and at least ensure that there were chairs for his guests. She had forgotten how cluttered his rooms were. The rooms of a scholar, she recognized now, littered with the detritus of his work.

He stood immediately as they entered. He was smaller than she remembered, his face deeply lined and his body thin under his robes. He had been considerably older than her father; he must be at least in his late sixties now.

“Cassandra,” he said, and smiled.

“Uncle Vestalus,” she responded automatically, and then reflexes took over, which was a very good thing given the state of her mind. “May I present Inquisitor Trevelyan. Inquisitor, this is my uncle, Vestalus Pentaghast, Prelate of the Grand Necropolis.”

“I am very pleased to meet you, my lord,” said Trev. Vestalus put out both his hands and took hers, bowing over it with a smile.

“The pleasure is wholly mine, Inquisitor. Please be welcome in my home.” He gestured to the three chairs arranged around a low table in the corner of his office. “Will you sit?”

Cassandra fought a short and inexplicable battle of wills with her uncle over the etiquette of seating, finding herself wishing to be the last to sit, or to perhaps not sit at all. But it was his home, after all, and after a moment she gave in and sat beside Trev, allowing him to take his seat last. Her chair was distressingly soft and enveloping, making it difficult to sit rigid and upright.

“May I offer you refreshments?” said Vestalus. He gestured and a servant Cassandra had not previously noticed stepped forward with a tray. It was her uncle’s steward, looking as dapper as ever.

“Cassius!” she said, startled. He smiled.

“Lady Cassandra. It is good to see you.”

She did not know why the sight of him had surprised her; of course he was still with her uncle. It was an excellent position, ranking high amongst the servant class, and he had always been loyal to her uncle. Of course he was still there.

She had not seen that much of him when she was young, being under the care of a governess and tutor. But he had been kind to her when she was a child, in his way, and she found herself surprisingly glad to see him.

Cassius was pouring deep red wine from a Serault glass decanter into beautifully blown glasses. He served Trev first, and then herself. As he served Vestalus Cassandra took a drink that was perhaps larger than was entirely polite, and found herself startled again.

“This is a remarkable wine,” said Trev, who had taken a much more moderate sip, admiring the play of colour in her glass.

Vestalus looked pleased. “I am glad you like it,” he said. “I have been saving it for a special occasion.”

 _Maker_. He had broken out the Vientos del Norte.

It was altogether fortunate that Trev was there, because Cassandra could not think of a thing to say, her mind as blank and blindingly empty as the snow in Emprise de Lion after a blizzard. The Inquisitor remarked on the beauty of the architecture they had seen on their way, and Vestalus was able to tell her something of the families whose tombs they were. Her uncle seemed to recognize that Trev’s interest in their history was genuine, and was delighted by it.

By the time they were called to dinner she had somewhat recovered herself, although she still felt slow and tongue-tied. Vestalus had not tried to draw her out, though he had acknowledged her in his responses to Trev’s questions. But now, as the first course was served, he turned to her.

“I heard of the fate of the Seekers,” he said. “I was very glad to hear that you did not fall prey to the Lord Seeker’s madness.”

 _Does he mean that he is glad I survived, or that I too did not become mad?_ she wondered a little hysterically. Never mind, it did not matter.

“And now I understand that you are working to rebuild the Seekers at cousin Berard’s old lodge,” he was saying.

“Yes,” she said, and cleared her throat. “I have been searching for survivors, and found a few. We have begun work.”

“I am glad that it has come into your hands,” he said. “You will build something fine there, I am certain.” And then he looked down at his food, and carefully took a bite, seeming to not know what else to say to her.

_He is afraid._

Impossible. What was there for him to be afraid of?

But now Trev was asking him a question about Nevarran food, and he answered more easily, if not as easily as when he had spoken of the tombs in the Grand Necropolis. “I rely on my staff,” he was saying. “I am not conversant with the most fashionable cuisine. I live a somewhat retired life here with my studies. I hold an important post, of course, but my responsibilities relate to ceremonies and entombments, not the matters of everyday life. When I do dine out I confess that I am not always certain of what I am eating, or of the finer courtesies with regard to its consumption. I consider myself a success if I do not choose the wrong fork.”

Trev laughed. “I have great sympathy with you, my lord. Have you ever had the misfortune to visit Orlais? Their manners and courtesies are beyond opaque.”

“I have not,” he said, sounding thankful. “Will you tell me something of them?”

As the second course was served Trev began an amusing tale of a particularly embarrassing moment she had experienced in her official capacity at a state function, at the intersection between practicality and fashion. Cassandra picked up a fork—the correct one, she was certain—and thought about food.

The food her uncle had served when she was a child was good but for the most part simple; this was a far more elaborate feast than she was used to under his roof, save when he was entertaining guests. It appeared that she and Trev had been placed in the higher levels of this category; the food was excellent, and although not ridiculously complicated it was also not simple to make.

She was glad that Trev was there to help with conversation; sitting in the great dining hall she felt like a twelve-year old again, mute and inarticulate. Her uncle was no help; he seemed to prefer to listen to the Inquisitor, save when he spoke of his pet interests. He had always behaved this way, she remembered now, even when entertaining; he was not a good conversationalist, preferring to listen to others speak. Trev had been able to draw him out more than most.

By the fourth course she had begun to feel a little more confident. She was careful to eat lightly, still not trusting her stomach, but the jitters had begun to settle. Some of the dishes were ones that she particularly liked, which in some odd way was reassuring. She had found a few things to say to her uncle, and he had seemed happy to hear them. It was not so dreadful an experience as she had feared. Trev was an anchor, reminding her that she was no longer a child, and a bridge, finding common ground for them to talk about.

At times it was almost pleasant.

By the end of the meal she had come close to relaxing. Afterwards they sat drinking a fine Antivan brandy and conversing casually. And she _was_ conversing casually, Cassandra thought, and it was not so difficult.

Eventually Trev, whom Cassandra suspected of stifling a yawn, said that they must return to their inn, and thanked Vestalus for a delightful evening.

“I have very much enjoyed your company, Inquisitor,” he said, signalling for a servant to bring their carriage and driver. “I hope that you will visit again.” Cassandra blinked. Unless he had changed very much, Vestalus rarely asked people to visit for reasons other than duty; he preferred solitude. He must actually like Trev a great deal to have issued such an invitation. “I am glad that my niece has found such a friend,” he was saying to Trev, “that you have each other.”

But now he was turning to her. “I am glad you came,” he simply said to Cassandra. “I hope that you know that you are always welcome in my house, should you choose to come.”

“Thank you, uncle,” said Cassandra, unable to think of anything else to say.

Trev excused herself for a few minutes, and as they waited for her Cassandra and Vestalus sat in silence. Eventually he said somewhat diffidently, “I have heard the stories of how Seekers are made, though I do not know if what I have heard is true. But those who told me said that it was your choice to bring this into the light.”

“Yes,” she said. “I do not know what you have heard, but this is the truth: candidates are made Tranquil by their vigil, and then restored by the touch of a spirit. I myself was touched by a spirit of Faith.”

“Interesting,” he said. “To be alive and touched by a spirit, an intelligent spirit… it must be a remarkable thing.”

“Yes,” she said. The Mortalitasi were of course familiar with spirits and demons; they drew spirits from the Fade to occupy corpses, though there did not seem to be conscious intelligence involved; they both feared and revered the spirits they attracted. She should have remembered that her uncle would be fascinated by such things.

She did not want to talk to him about it. It was private, not for sharing. He seemed to sense this, and did not press for details, though he must have longed for them.

“And if they are not touched by a spirit?”

“They remain Tranquil,” said Cassandra. It was one of the most bitter things she had learned. “But very few failed, at least in that way. If it was not thought that they could succeed, they were not allowed to begin their vigil in the first place. And most who failed their vigil gave it up well before they became Tranquil.”

He was silent for a while. “I did not know, when I sent you there, that such things were done.”

“No one did,” she said. “Only the Lord Seeker and his immediate circle knew.”

“I am not sure that I would have given you to them if I had known,” he said then. “It seemed a better choice than the Templars; they fall far too often to lyrium addiction. I had a friend who was a Templar, and I saw what happened to him. I know that was where you wanted to go, but I did not want to take that chance. But perhaps I was wrong.”

Cassandra stared at him. “No,” she said finally, slowly. “You were not wrong.”

*        *        *

“Maker,” said Trev, loosening her breeches, “it’s been a long time since I’ve eaten that much. I’m out of practice at such meals. I may explode.”

“You do not have the appetite you used to,” said Cassandra. Trev had seemed uninterested in food since losing her arm, eating as if it was a duty and not a pleasure, and had lost weight.

“No,” said Trev, “I don’t. But this meal was excellent; it was just that there was too much of it for me, and I wanted to be polite so I ate it anyway.”

“I’m not certain my uncle would have noticed if you hadn’t,” said Cassandra wryly. “His focus is sometimes very narrow, and does not go far beyond his studies and his work.”

“Your uncle is shy,” said Trev, and Cassandra dropped the boot she was pulling off.

“Are you serious?”

“Absolutely. Painfully shy, except when you get him talking about something relating to his work. I imagine he’s exceptionally good at that, and at working behind the scenes politically, or he wouldn’t have his position.” She grinned. “Mind you, that may be the reason he has the prelacy he does: fewer people to interact with. Live ones, anyway.”

Cassandra stared at her, one boot on, one off. Her uncle was an awkward conversationalist. She had always thought that it was because he was contemptuous of people. It had never occurred to her that it might be because he was nervous or unsure of what to say.

Or clumsy in choosing his words, like herself.

“He gave us his blessing,” said Trev. “Did you notice?”

“You think that he knew—”

“Of course. He might be shy, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t pay attention. He’d likely heard gossip over the years.” She hesitated. “I think he cares what happens to you.”

Cassandra looked down and mechanically pulled off the second boot. She did not know how to think about what Trev had said. She could not think of what to say. Maker, she had not been so hopelessly tongue-tied since she had been a child with her uncle.

Like her uncle.

Her body ached as if she had been riding all day; the tension, of course. She had been ridiculously nervous. And Trev was yawning; she might not have suffered from the same nerves, but she had carried much of the social weight of the evening.

And Trev had been _there_ , in a way she had not been in a very long time. Cassandra had needed her, and she had been there. She was still there.

“Trev,” she said, and her lover looked up and smiled at her. Most people saw only her grin, but she had a smile for Cassandra at times that was small and sweet and private. _Thank you_ , she wanted to say to Trev. _You give me strength. You lend me grace, and heart. There is no one in the world I hold so close to my soul, and never has been, and never will be._

She could say none of it; the words had drifted away like flower petals on a spring breeze. She reached out instead, and Trev came into her arms, warm and solid and _there_ , and Cassandra held her so tightly that surely it must have hurt. “Thank you,” she whispered.

 


	8. The wyvern

The wyvern came from a small ridge above them as they passed, taking them by surprise. They had not been on guard for something so dangerous; although they were in mountains now, wyverns were not usually found in that kind of terrain, and if anything large came for them they would have expected a bear. They had gone off the main roads, taking a side trail Cassandra had heard of and wanted to map, and so they had missed the villages that might have warned them. Cassandra caught the flurry of sinuous motion from the corner of her eye, and shouted, and then it was on them.

It was a young one, likely looking for territory, and small, or they probably would not have survived. As it was, it was a very near thing.

The wyvern’s venom hit Trev’s horse on the haunches; it screamed, reared, and threw her, which was in some ways lucky, because she fell clear before its talons raked the mare. Winded by the fall, it took her a moment to find her feet, but by that time Cassandra was off her own horse and charging.

The trick with fighting such a creature was to prevent it from focusing on one person and make every strike count, taking it down before it could do too much harm to anyone. But they had no mage or archer to fight from a distance, covering them and distracting the thing. This was close work, and dangerous, and it took longer to do it serious damage because there were only the two of them; and while Cassandra had a shield that protected her to some degree from the venom that could seep beneath armour, Trev did not.

Normally, fighting with more people, Trev would find it fairly easy to dodge the poison. Wyverns were cunning, but not terribly intelligent, and were easily distracted. Even better, they could be teased to waste venom spitting at fighters beyond their reach while those who were closer set their blows strategically. But now there were only two of them. Cassandra did her best to hold its attention, but she could not entirely prevent it from taking notice of Trev.

And Trev, though still fast and agile, was not doing the damage she usually did. Her blows were not landing quite as they should, were not quite as deadly. As the poison began to affect her, she began to slow, and that meant she was in danger from the creature’s talons and teeth. A blow from the tail sent her flying, and it took her too long to rise. Seeing the wyvern swing its head toward her lover, Cassandra shouted, distracting it, and Trev finally rolled away. Frantic, Cassandra redoubled her efforts.

It finally died in a hissing heap of claws and fangs, still reaching for them. They stood exhausted and shaking, momentarily unable to do anything else. The Inquisitor was barely on her feet; she had been raked across one shoulder by the wyvern’s claws, and was bleeding badly there and from the place where its teeth had torn her leg in passing. It was lucky that it was only in passing, as if the jaws had closed it would have crushed bone, but Cassandra had slammed into it for the final blow, and it had fallen.

The venom was the most immediate danger. Cassandra had been hit by it too, though not as many times as Trev, who would almost certainly die if she did not receive treatment soon. Cassandra stumbled over to her, unsteadily; the toxin was already affecting her. She had begun to feel fierce stabbing pains when she moved and she felt lightheaded and ill. “Sit before you fall,” she said, rummaging in a belt pouch.

“If I sit I may not get up again.” Trev was pale and shaking violently.

“You will get up.” Cassandra caught her arm and helped her sit, then uncorked the antidote. She never travelled without it; you never knew when such things might be needed. She got the mouth of the flask between Trev’s chattering teeth, saw her throat move, and again. When she was sure enough had gone down she swallowed a mouthful herself. There was a little left, if they needed it, but that should be enough.

Trev drank two healing potions as well, and began to look better. She was pale and her hands were still shaking, but less so, and the bleeding had stopped.

Trev’s horse was dead. Cassandra took the mare’s saddlebags and the rest of the Inquisitor’s gear and fastened it to her own horse’s saddle. “I think there is a village not too far from here,” she said. “We will buy another horse there if we can, and come back for the rest.” She pulled the mare’s tack off and hid it in bushes some distance from the horse’s body. Their riding gear was of excellent quality, made to their specifications and requirements; she did not want to leave it for scavengers, either those with four legs or two.

Trev nodded. There were tears on her cheeks; the mare had been a favourite, come originally from Dennet’s herds and with her for many years.

Cassandra made Trev ride her horse, and walked beside her. Though the potions helped a great deal, it would take the Inquisitor a little time to recover from the blood loss. They walked in silence. The trail they were on led eventually to a wider trail, and then Cassandra knew where they were, roughly in the location she had expected to be in. The inn was only a couple of miles further on.

The village was small, and pleased to have visitors. They were even more pleased to hear that the wyvern was dead, and a crowd grew quickly as the news spread. “You get any venom?” asked the local healer, with interest. Wyvern venom was very valuable, and hard to come by.

“Not in any way that would be useful to you,” said Cassandra wryly, and the man laughed. She made arrangements to purchase more antidote from him to replenish her supplies; it was not something that all village healers had, but this one had had good reason to stock it.

In an unusual fit of magnanimity, the innkeeper announced that he would put them in the best lodgings he had, no charge, and led them up steep, awkward stairs to a large room with shuttered windows on the second floor; when he threw the shutters open they found themselves looking down over forested hills. It was indeed a fine room. The wyvern must have harmed the village badly to draw this kind of generosity.

There was a large copper tub available; would they care to have a bath pulled? Yes, they would, and they would like to have their clothes washed, and dinner afterwards. It would be his pleasure, he said, the servants will bring tub and water, and extra buckets and rags for the cleaning of their gear, and the chambermaid would come for their clothes in an hour, and bustled away.

Trev sat on a chair and began to pull clean clothes out of her saddlebags. She had said nothing at all since the fight with the wyvern. She said nothing while the servants prepared the bath, and nothing after they left, continuing to arrange her belongings precisely on the shelves as she unpacked. Cassandra had begun to worry.

“Trev?” she said cautiously.

Trev looked at her, finally. “You were right,” she said, and her voice was careful and threadbare as old leaves in winter. “I am not the fighter I was.”

After a moment Cassandra said into the silence, “But you will be.”

“Will I?” said Trev, with no expression in her voice. “I’m not so sure.”

“You must give it time.”

Trev looked at the grime under her fingernails. “I think it is more likely that my days of hunting dragons are over. This was not even a dragon, and I had great difficulty. If you had not been there to protect me I would be dead.”

“There are many times when I could have said the same to you,” said Cassandra gently.

“Yes,” said Trev bleakly. “But those were times when luck was bad, or we were overrun, or there was some kind of surprise. This was different. This—you spent half your time trying to protect me. You have never had to do that before, not like that. I couldn’t protect myself, or you. I couldn’t even protect my horse.”

“We were taken by surprise,” said Cassandra. “You could not have prevented your mare’s death.”

Trev did not argue. “You bathe first. I want to get Dagna’s arm clean.”

It was clear that she did not want to talk more about it. Cassandra shed her clothes into a bloodstained, filthy heap, and sank into the tub. Trev removed the artificial arm and took a bucket of water and a bowl and rag and brushes to a small table and began to clean off the blood and slime from the wyvern. Any poison that remained was long since neutralized by exposure to the air, but the stuff was gummy and stank, and the arm was so complex that it took some time to clean properly. Dagna had made it so that it could be safely immersed in water once the leather straps were removed, which helped, though it then had to be dried and oiled. (Cassandra was amazed when she first learned this, wanting to know how it could be accomplished; rusting metal was a constant problem for fighters. Trev had rolled her eyes. “It’s Dagna,” she said. “I have no idea, but I’m sure it’s expensive and involves a rune.”)

In any case, even with the ability to wash the thing with water and get into crevices with the small stiff brushes she carried in her kit, the whole process took a long time. The Inquisitor was still not finished when Cassandra emerged dripping from the tub, rubbing her hair dry. “I’m done. Don’t let the water get cold.” She reached for her clean clothes.

Trev did not look up. “If it does,” she said, “I can use the rune in the arm to heat it. It’s good for something, I suppose.” Her voice was flat. She looked exhausted.

“I could finish cleaning it while you bathe,” said Cassandra.

She could see whiteness around Trev’s knuckles as she held her brush. “I don’t need you to do it for me.” She did not sound angry, but neither did she sound happy about the offer.

“I know that,” said Cassandra carefully. “But I am going to clean my gear anyway, a little more is no trouble. And I am not convinced that your rune can really heat a whole bathtub of water.”

As far as Cassandra knew Trev had never allowed anyone one else to handle or clean her arm, apart from Dagna. She had offered before, and Trev had refused. Now she thought that she might be asking for a great deal. But she wanted to help. She wanted to do something to try to take that empty look out of Trev’s eyes. And something in her gut told her that this was very much not a good time to offer to scrub Trev’s back, or help her wash her hair.

“All right,” said Trev after thinking about it for a little, and pushed her chair back. “It’s all yours.” She walked carelessly away from the table, not looking back, as Cassandra took her place.

There was not actually a great deal left to do. Cassandra finished the cleaning, then patted the arm dry with a clean rag. She set it aside and began to clean her own armour.

With only one hand it was more challenging for Trev to wash herself thoroughly without help, but she had learned how to do so. After she had rinsed her hair with water from the bucket by the tub she sat back, sighing, and then was silent. Cassandra looked up. She seemed to be staring at the sky through the windows. Cassandra could see the livid scars from the day’s fight on her shoulder; they would fade quickly. She bent back to her work. Eventually Trev took a breath and got out of the tub, dried herself, and began to dress.

“Use the fire rune while I’m oiling my armour,” said Cassandra, “and I can oil your arm as well.” It was a quick way to be sure the joints of the thing were completely dry. Trev held it in place, and the rune flared, a line of fire running through the mechanism. How it was able to heat the metal enough to dry out crevices without making it too hot where it touched Trev was beyond Cassandra. It beggared the imagination. But that was Dagna.

She oiled the arm’s joints while Trev finished dressing, and handed it back. Trev strapped it into place carefully this time, and then put on her shirt and pulled on a sleeveless jerkin and lightweight vambraces over the sleeves. The left one had been designed to work with the artificial arm. The leather did not cover the grasping device, and would not obstruct the dagger if a weapon was needed, but it made the artificiality of the thing a little less evident. As a gift to her, Cassandra had arranged to have the vambraces tooled with an intricate pattern of vines and leaves. She was glad now that she had not chosen a pattern of dragons, something she had seriously considered at the time.

They gave their filthy clothing to the chambermaid and finished cleaning their gear, and then went down to the common room to eat. In response to Cassandra’s query as to whether there were any horses that might be purchased to replace the mare Trev had lost, the innkeeper said he thought there were one or two that might suit. He would arrange to have them brought for examination the next morning. Cassandra doubted that any horse from a small village like this would be much good, but it would do until they reached Vérité.

Trev had too much ale with their supper, especially given that she was suffering from blood loss; she really should not have been drinking anything. Cassandra watched and drank slowly from her single mug, feeling uncomfortable. Someone would need to get the Inquisitor up those steep stairs, she thought, and she had better be sober doing so.

The villagers crowded the tavern, likely far more than were usual, come to hear the story of the wyvern. Cassandra, disappointing them, said only that it took them by surprise, and was difficult to kill. They turned to Trev, looking for a more elaborate tale, but she simply shook her head. But then the village elder got up to speak for everyone, and thanked them for killing the wyvern. “You may not realize,” she said to the others, “but it is not just two travellers, it is Inquisitor Trevelyan and Seeker Pentaghast who rid us of this thing!” She bowed to them, and a cheer went up.

Someone had recognized them. Or maybe someone had recognized her—it was not so far from Vérité, and she had been back and forth often in her Seeker tabard—and seen the Inquisitor’s arm, and put two and two together. There were not so many people likely to travel with the Seeker who had an artificial arm and fought wyverns.

“The credit is all the Seeker’s,” said Trev, taking a gulp of ale. “She is the greatest dragon hunter here, and she saved my ass with this wyvern.” They laughed, thinking she was joking.

The barmaid came by with another drink for her, and Trev, who had now begun to laugh and joke with the villagers, carelessly flirted with the woman, who smiled seductively and flirted right back. It was not serious on Trev’s part, Cassandra knew that. But Trev had not flirted with anyone but Cassandra since they had been together. It was a shock, and it hurt a little. And then a little later the barmaid found an excuse to come around again, and Trev ignored her, and Cassandra saw the woman frown. Trev was not usually so rude, either. But now she had begun to stare into the distance, and was not listening to what others were saying.

“We need to get to bed,” Cassandra said to the room, giving a tug on Trev’s sleeve as she stood. “It has been a long day.” And thankfully, Trev followed her lead, with a vague smile and wave. She sent Trev up first and kept close behind, her hand on the railing, but perhaps Trev was not as drunk as she seemed, for she managed the stairs tolerably well.

Cassandra began to undress and prepare for bed. Trev brushed her teeth, and took her arm off and set it on the table, then seemed to lose momentum. She sat and stared at the arm, fiddling with the mechanics of it, slowly moving this, moving that.

“Come to bed, love,” said Cassandra finally, and after a moment Trev nodded and stood and finished undressing and slid into bed beside her.

She was responding to everything with a delay, Cassandra realized. It was as if she was not quite there, and had to return each time someone spoke to her.

She was drunk. Of course there were delays. Cassandra shut her eyes and prayed that it would be better in the morning.

*        *        *

If she had a hangover in the morning, Trev did not show it. She dressed and packed her things quickly and efficiently. She seemed to want to be out of the village as soon as possible, though she did not say so directly.

The innkeeper came over as they took breakfast in the common room, saying that there had been two horses brought for them to look at. “Not what you’re used to, I expect,” he said, “but decent enough quality, and they’ll only ask a fair price.”

The horses were placid and healthy, suited for life in a small village, and not at all for someone who might go into battle. But that was not important. One was a young mare, and could be bred; more expensive, but useful. “Do you have any preferences?” Cassandra asked Trev, who shook her head mutely.

They took the mare, with a bridle and saddle-pad, said their goodbyes to the villagers, and rode back along the trails to where they had killed the wyvern. Trev had said that there was no reason to take a saddle; they had their own gear, and carrying a spare back would be awkward. Cassandra would have preferred that Trev ride with greater security, but said nothing.

Scavengers had been at the wyvern, but their tack was still safe where they had hidden it. They put it on the new mare, whose name was Bonny (“All villages have a mare named Bonny,” Trev had muttered with resignation) and adjusted it to fit, and then took Trev’s gear from Cassandra’s horse and lashed it in place.

They passed back through the village quickly, only pausing to leave the bridle and saddle-pad with the innkeeper. The barmaid looked out the inn door hopefully, but Trev kept her head down. She had had very little to say that morning, and seemed to have turned entirely inward.

They were travelling into remote areas now, and saw few people. Trev had nothing to say, and in the absence of conversation Cassandra found herself thinking about her uncle. It had not been a reconciliation, but it was something. She supposed she would be in contact with him again. She would see what came of it. Situations changed; people changed. She had changed.

In the last months Trev had changed, and changed, and changed again, until Cassandra felt unsteady on her feet. She had turned inward to a frightening degree after they left Skyhold, but had been better again in Nevarra City and after. The visit with Vestalus seemed to have brought her out of herself. But since the wyvern’s attack she had fallen back into silence, into a kind of stultifying waking dream, paying little attention to what was going on around her. It was as if she was somewhere else, seeing something no one else could see, listening to voices no one else could hear, and Cassandra did not know what to do about it. She had hoped, desperately, that Trev was beginning to recover from her sorrow, but now she realized that it had only been a surfacing, a breath before sinking again. Her heart felt as if it would tear from her breast with the pain of it. There was a flaring of anger and frustration that tightened her hands.

Time. She had said to Trev that she needed more time to become the fighter she had been. Maybe this was the same. Maybe she need only be patient, to hold on until it was over.

Maybe.

 _You think Harding was right_ , said the small voice in the back of her mind. _You know Harding was right. And you are afraid that she is becoming a coward._

The thought took her breath away, a sucking wind that left no air in her lungs.

No. Trev was not a coward. “You are the furthest thing from a coward I have ever known,” she had said to Trev once. And she believed it absolutely; there was no question of it. It was a good part of what she loved about Trev: her staunchness, her stubbornness, the way that she would take up her weapons and keep fighting for what she believed in even if she was afraid.

_You don’t fear that she is a coward about things she can stand up to, like a wyvern. You are afraid that she cannot face the things that cannot be changed, the things that can only be endured._

She is not a coward. These things take time. She will find her strength again. She will take up her weapons.

_If she can find them. What do you do when you have lost your weapons?_

You make do with what you have, and fight anyway.

_And when you cannot see beyond yourself to find anything at all to fight with? Is despair cowardice?_

Despair is _not_ cowardice.

But it is not fighting back, either.

_You don’t really think that this is like relearning a skill after an injury. You think that she is different now. You are afraid that she will not find her way back to what she was. To you. You are afraid that you are losing what you love._

Cassandra set her jaw. It was true. But she did not have an answer to it, save to be patient and hold on and believe in her lover. She could be as stubborn as Trev, if there was need. There was nowhere Trev could go that she would not follow, would not fight for her.

 _My uncle could not find Anthony’s killers, and gave up_ , she thought then. _I hated him for it. I thought him a coward, and so I gave up on him. But there was more to it than that, though I did not see it. It is not always so easy as I thought when I was a child. Things are not so simple._ _I myself gave up on Hawke when I could not find her. With Hawke, I gave up too soon, when the answer was right under my nose. I allowed myself to be misled by the story I was told, and did not see the truth. I do not always see things clearly._ _I gave up with Trev, when we were estranged, until she found a way back for us, because I could not see the truth of what was happening between us, could not see how to fight against it._

_I have given up too often. Perhaps I am the one who is the coward._

_With Trev I will never give up._


	9. Vérité

They came to Vérité two weeks later, deep in the Hunterhorn Mountains. Roads had turned to tracks, and tracks to trails, and villages had become fewer and fewer until there were none at all. And then they rode over the crest of a ridge, and there it was, tucked into the side of the mountain before them, with only the width of a valley to cross.

It had been built primarily as a dragon hunting lodge by a cousin of Cassandra’s great-great-grandfather, but the Pentaghasts had hunted high dragons nearly to extinction, and now there were none left in the area. There was good hunting of other kinds, but the lodge was too remote to be convenient for those purposes, and so it had largely fallen into disuse and been forgotten. It had eventually come to Vestalus through a childless cousin who had been fond of him. When Cassandra’s parents had been executed their properties had been seized, but those of Vestalus had been left alone. He had made the property over to Anthony after King Marcus’s attention had turned elsewhere, and when Anthony died it had gone to Cassandra, though she had not seen it until she was in her twenties.

The lodge had been built at the upper end of a cliff-top meadow, with a vertically-walled crag above it affording it some protection from the prevailing winds. Avalanche gullies ran down to either side of the meadow, providing a channel for more tangible dangers, and had carved steep, treacherous canyons to either side. The trail to the lodge wound to one side of the valley below, and then across a high, narrow bridge over the deepest and widest gully; it was possible that falling debris could take it out, but unlikely given the slope of the land. And indeed, though there had been some minor damage to it, it had not given way in all the years it had stood unmaintained when the lodge was in disuse. It was remote and defensible, had good hunting locally, and there was enough land to expand: a perfect place to rebuild the Seekers.

“You have been taking notes at Skyhold,” said Trev, as they stopped to stare up across the valley. Their horses, smelling a barn, snorted and shifted impatiently.

Trev’s voice sounded rusty from disuse, but at least she was speaking.

“I imagine that someday, when we have grown, it will be necessary to move the Order’s headquarters to a more central location,” Cassandra said. “But I think that even then this will be a good place to train candidates. And for now, it is a good place to rebuild.”

The original buildings’ lichened stone and weathered wood were half invisible against the cliff wall behind them, but they had been joined by several new steep-roofed outbuildings to both sides, there was a tower under construction against the cliff to the west, and low walls had been marked out to enclose a bailey. The local stone had a silvery sheen, and gleamed in the sunlight, bright and new.

“I can see that the stone is easy to get,” said Trev, “but bringing wood up here must be more challenging.”

“Yes,” said Cassandra. “There are forests nearby where smaller planks can be milled, but the large beams must come from further away. It has been challenging getting them there, but we have found good people to manage it. You will find quite a few workers that you know from Skyhold here, Trev.”

“I look forward to seeing them again,” said the Inquisitor after a moment, her eyes sliding over the distant buildings.

*        *        *

Cassandra watched Trev ride before her up the narrow trail and across the bridge to the meadow. Her lover’s shoulders were upright and unyielding, far from the slumping of previous days. She was setting herself for something.

Perhaps it was just the prospect of new people. They had gotten accustomed to being alone together. When they were noticed, riding across the meadow to the lodge itself, someone ran to the new tower, and a short, stocky woman emerged, pulling off gloves, and walked toward them. Her shirt and breeches were faded and much repaired, her leather jerkin was old and weather-beaten, and she had a hammer hanging from her belt. She looked like a common labourer; only the papers tucked into her jerkin suggested otherwise.

“Seeker Pentaghast,” she said, offering her arm. Cassandra leaned down from her horse and clasped it.

“Seeker Emery,” she replied. “Trev, this is Seeker Talesin Emery, one of the first I found when I went searching. She has been overseeing the rebuilding in my absence. Emery, may I present Inquisitor Trevelyan.”

“Inquisitor,” said Emery, bowing. She was a tough-looking bulky woman with the hard muscles of a two-handed fighter, probably in her early thirties, and was encased from head to toe in a layer of dust. “I am very glad to meet you, after hearing so much of your deeds.” Her eyes drifted to Trev’s arm briefly, but she made no comment on it.

“The pleasure is mine,” said Trev formally, bowing back.

“I see that good progress has been made,” said Cassandra, looking around.

Emery smiled. “Yes, we have accomplished quite a lot. When you’ve settled in your quarters find me and I will show you what has been done while you were gone.” She nodded and headed back to the tower.

A stable-hand had come by then. Cassandra introduced him as Gerard, and they handed the horses off to him and carried their saddlebags and other gear into the lodge.

The old building had thick walls to stand against winter storms and small, deepset windows. It was summer now, and the shutters were open. The walls were newly white-washed plaster where they were not wooden panels, the beams above them were dark with smoke from old fires. There were a considerable number of old tapestries showing the exploits of dragon hunters. Cassandra saw Trev looking at them, and said, “My family has been obsessed with dragon hunting for centuries, and it shows. They are somewhat damaged by age, and I am not fond of them, but they are better than nothing, and our funds were more usefully spent on building than replacing them.” Trev nodded and said nothing.

Cassandra had a large room at the top of the building. It had been cluttered when she first took it, full of extravagant, expensive old furnishings in a ridiculously opulent style she disliked. What she had needed she had repaired, sighing at its extravagance, and the rest had been given to others for their use. The room served as both private quarters and office, and looked out over the meadow and the valley below. She had a wardrobe for clothing, stands for weapons and armour, a big bed tucked into an alcove behind a screen, a table to work at, bookshelves, and extra space and chairs to meet with others. Apart from the quality of the furnishings it was not so different from her loft over the forge, and she was perfectly satisfied with it.

It was also large enough to accommodate the belongings of a second person, something she had considered when choosing it. “There is room for your things here,” she said to Trev, indicating the empty shelves in the wardrobe and the other spaces she had carefully reserved for her lover’s belongings. Trev nodded and began to put her gear away.

There were dragon tapestries here as well. She would replace them.

A servant knocked on the door, bringing hot water and towels. Cassandra washed the grime of travel from her face and hands thankfully, and Trev did the same. “There is a bathhouse we can use later for a proper wash,” Cassandra said. “But now I want to see what has been done, and then get something to eat. Will you come with me?”

“Of course,” said Trev, and followed her out the door.

The old lodge was large, for what it was. Those who would have permanent residence at Vérité slept in the upper rooms; to one side of the entry hall below there was a long hall, with chairs and benches and an enormous hearth with a stuffed dragon’s head above it. To the other side of the hall was a refectory. The kitchens and servants’ quarters were in the back, to either side of a long corridor leading to enclosed latrines.

Past the refectory was the library; it was overflowing with books, some of which had not yet been unpacked from crates. “I asked Josephine and Leliana to speak to their acquaintances about books that might be of use in uncovering Seeker history,” said Cassandra at Trev’s look. “And Divine Victoria sent some as well. I was not expecting such an enthusiastic response.”

“All of this relates to Seeker history?”

Cassandra chuckled. “No. Most of them are old and in terms of my research, useless. But people have sent them on just in case they contain something of value. And to clear their own libraries, I think.”

A tall rawboned young man had risen from behind a pile of boxes at the sound of their voices. “Seeker Pentaghast!”

“Ah,” she said, and introduced him to Trev as Dominic Asten. “Dominic is a Templar who has come to us as a Seeker candidate. He has a strong interest in history, and has taken on the task of managing the books.”

“Then I look forward to conversations with you,” said Trev, smiling, “as I have an interest in history myself.”

After a few more words Cassandra led Trev out into the yard and explained what the other buildings were used for, mostly storage and residences. There was a small weathered structure that housed a well, currently opened on two sides, connected to the lodge by a narrow enclosed passage for protection in winter. Most buildings showed signs of being hastily constructed and were sometimes a bit ramshackle, but there was one that butted right up against the new tower that was very solidly built. “The stable,” said Cassandra. “Some people who came to Vérité of course brought their own, and we also have acquired some good horses from Master Dennet. We will find you a better mount there.”

Emery had evidently been watching for them, and came out as they approached the tower. “We’ve finished the tower walls and set the beams for the floors,” she said. “Now we’re working on getting a roof over it all. After that it will be easier to work in all kinds of weather.”

“You’ve done well,” said Cassandra, and meant it. “I didn’t expect to see such progress.”

“We’ve had quite a few workers come from the Inquisition,” said Emery. “That helped a great deal. One of them was a mason, Gatsi—you would know him? He is also advising us on how to expand the caverns.”

Cassandra led Trev up the series of ladders that had been built into the scaffolding clinging to the inside walls of the tower and the network of beams crossing the central space to a platform ringing the top. Here they could look out over the battlements and see the land as a raven would. They stood silently in the breeze. The sun was warm, but the breeze was not; it would be cool at nights here, even on hot days, as it was at Skyhold.

“Once the tower is complete they will finish the outer walls of the keep,” Cassandra said. “It is not urgent, as there is peace in the land, and it’s easier to move building materials without them in place. But you can see from the framing they have built for the base where those walls will be. It will be done in two stages: first around the tower, and then later we will build a second wall to enclose the original lodge. Eventually there will be a stair built from the top of the tower to the top of the crag, with a lookout. When it is all finished Vérité will be close to impregnable.” Then, at Trev’s look, “It is not that I _expect_ us to be attacked; but I am not certain that my plans for the Seekers will please everyone in years to come.” Trev nodded.

When they came down to the bottom level of the tower again Cassandra picked her way toward the side that was against the cliff wall. Trev, following her, stopped and stared. “I have never seen a well _within_ a tower,” she said, looking at the small structure.

“It will be very convenient,” said Cassandra with satisfaction. “There is a spring from the cliff behind that runs all year, though in winter it used to be inaccessible, behind ice. They have been building a system to direct its water; there is a reservoir in the caves behind the keep, and channels to take the overflow away. In the long term, we will build a mechanism to carry it directly to kitchens and baths. We will never be short of water here, and it will be convenient to use.”

There was an archway to a tunnel through the stone and a faint light beyond, from which came the sound of hammers on stone. “There are natural caverns in the cliff,” she said. “They are being used for storage, and our plan is to expand them until we can keep enough supplies for at least a company of one hundred Seekers and associated staff to make us self-sufficient for a year.”

The tunnel opened into a substantially sized cavern. Workers were using picks on the walls and wheeling barrows of stone away. “It is good to see you, Gatsi,” Trev said to the stocky dwarf overseeing the work. He nodded at them.

“Inquisitor. It’s good to see you too. Going to collect some more mosaics in these lands for me to tell you about?”

“I think I’m done with mosaics,” said Trev after a moment’s hesitation. “Though I’m happy to hear if anyone else brings you anything with stories behind it.”

“Hmph, that’s not likely with this lot—they think of nothing but what is new,” he said dismissively, and began to explain what the workers were doing.

There were more explorations and introductions and reunions. There were in fact quite a few people who had come from Skyhold to Vérité; some for the work, some because they had formed relationships with others and wanted to find a place where they could maintain them. Adan, to Trev’s astonishment, had come to work as the Seeker’s apothecary, and although he greeted her with a typical lack of grace he seemed vaguely pleased to see her.

“I thought he didn’t want to be an apothecary anymore,” Trev muttered to Cassandra as they walked away. “I thought he just wanted to do research.”

“So did I,” said Cassandra, “but here he is. He said that he had read everything of use at Skyhold and wasn’t interested in staying when the mages took over. ‘They aren’t interested in alchemy beyond their own needs, and you’ve got different books now,’ he said. His duties here as apothecary are light, and he has a lot of time for his research, which seems to please him. He’s less testy than he used to be, at least.”

By the time they had finished exploring and reviewing the state of construction it was late in the afternoon and the workers were putting down their tools for the day. Trev and Cassandra joined Emery and a few others at their table in the refectory. Three were Seekers—Basenj, Dulac, and Chiswick—and two were former Fereldan Templars who wished to become Seekers—Argyle and Clarence. They were used to Cassandra, but somewhat awed by the presence of the Inquisitor. But Trev, though quiet overall, was pleasant and unassuming when she did speak, and asked questions, and soon their awkwardness fell away and they said more. As it did Trev smiled more and said less and less.

She was still silent, later in their room, as they prepared for bed. But as they slid under the covers, Trev said, “Anyone who visits Vérité will know you are building more than a keep for training Seekers.”

“If they see all of it,” said Cassandra. “Not many will see what lies in the caverns.”

“Still,” said Trev, “what is visible will still be more than is necessary for training: you do not need to be able to house a hundred Seekers for that. And if you try to keep visitors away there will be suspicions. In any case, the workers who leave when the building is done will spread word.”

“It is no greater than any of the old Templar strongholds,” said Cassandra. Trev laughed.

“And look what happened to those!”

Cassandra sighed. “I know. But what else could I do? This is land I own; I do not have to beg for it from a suspicious ruler who demands my allegiance. It is far from anywhere of consequence, even within Nevarra, so it will not infringe on other authorities.”

“Vivienne will not leave you in peace. She wants the Seekers as an arm of the Chantry. You will not be able to hold her off for much longer.”

“The Seekers will never be an arm of the Chantry again,” said Cassandra after a moment. “We can do more good if we are not. You know that I’ve been uncertain about this; but while we travelled I settled my mind. Vivienne wants to maintain the world that was; but that world cannot work against Solas, because it is everything he hates.”

Trev rolled up on one elbow and stared at her. “You didn’t say anything about this.”

“It was only when we rode into Vérité that I finally understood what must be done,” said Cassandra simply. “The Chantry is as political as any nation, despite claiming otherwise, and we must stand aside from political allegiances. We will rebuild as an independent order and offer our services to all: to the Chantry, to the rulers of Orlais and Fereldan and all the others, to the Templars or Mages, to anyone who asks. We will investigate and find out when things have gone wrong. We will not usurp political power by punishing, we will leave that to others—but we will be transparent in all that we do, so that wrong-doing cannot be hidden. We will not keep secrets simply for the convenience of one political entity over another. We will be real Seekers of Truth, serving all, not bound by political requirement to a particular master.”

“If you serve none you will become a target of all,” said Trev, her voice carefully neutral.

“Perhaps. But perhaps instead we may be able to gain respect. It will be difficult to avoid corruption—it is difficult for any organization to avoid corruption—but this will make it easier to work against it elsewhere, to serve a greater good. Solas believes that it cannot be done; we must show him that it is possible. Refusing political alignment will start us on that road. And if we refuse to align with any power, and are careful not to seek our own, it may be that we can become the hub of a movement to work against Solas, or at least support the others who do so. Leliana’s web will continue to do its business of finding things out under Charter and Harding; we can work with them. I am not sure how it all can or should work, or if it is the _best_ way to do things, but it gives us a starting place.”

Trev had begun to smile. “It makes sense.”

“I hope so.” Cassandra sighed.

“This has been on your mind for a long time. I am glad to see it more settled. But you will have a great deal of work to do.”

 _You?_ A drift of something like feathers tickled Cassandra’s gut. But she said only, “Yes. I will have to try to see how this can all work. I will take all the advice I can, Trev, and yours first.”

Her lover snorted and flopped back on the bed, shutting her eyes. “Leliana and Josephine’s advice will be of more use than mine in this.”

“You underestimate your ability to scheme,” said Cassandra, and Trev snorted again and said no more.

*        *        *

The work truly began the next day. Emery arrived early, to go over in detail the things she had done and planned to do. She had the authority to make decisions, and had done so, but now she wanted Cassandra to know each and every detail. Trev went to breakfast in the refectory and arranged for a runner to take food to Cassandra, who had not had time to eat before her meeting, and after exploring further eventually reappeared in their quarters some hours later. Emery was just finishing her debriefing with a listing of the things she intended to do that day. It was an extensive list.

“Does the woman never stop to breathe?” said Trev after she left.

“Emery was Lucius Corin’s apprentice,” said Cassandra, who was inclined to the same incredulity but understood the reasons for Emery’s single-minded obsessiveness. “She finds it hard to forgive herself that she was not aware of what he was doing, though in truth there was not much chance of her finding out. She seeks to atone, and works constantly.”

“You blamed yourself for not noticing too, but you were not quite so extreme about compensating,” said Trev, eying the stack of documents Emery had delivered.

Cassandra sighed. “She is extremely thorough. She has prepared a great deal of information for me to review, and it will take me some time to go through it. Trev, forgive me, but I will have to put much of my attention to this for a little while.”

The Inquisitor smiled. “Of course, I expected as much. Just let me know if there is anything I can do to make it easier.”

“Will you advise me? I know that you are relieved to escape the meetings and decisions required of you as Inquisitor, you have said so. But I trust your judgement. If you would let me discuss things with you privately, it would be enormously helpful.”

“Of course,” said Trev. She didn’t sound particularly enthusiastic about it, but perhaps Cassandra was reading too much into her tone.

“There will also be times when I meet with others to discuss larger matters of policy; of how we might work against Solas’ intent. Will you sit in our council then?”

“Oh yes,” Trev said, her face set. “That discussion is one you could not keep me from.”

*        *        *

Cassandra was as busy, if not busier, than she expected. For the first week there was an enormous amount of work to do, simply in familiarizing herself with the progress made while she had been gone. Emery, delegated to make decisions, had made them, and wished to confirm them with Cassandra. It was tedious and tiring. But progress had been made, and it was encouraging, even if each day left her falling into bed exhausted.

Trev disappeared for hours at a time, exploring the hold, talking to people—Cassandra was not sure what she did. Sometimes, she knew, Trev rode out from Vérité on the gelding they had given her to replace the farm mare, a well-trained and beautifully mannered horse that had belonged to a captain in the Inquisition who had returned to his seafaring family in the Marches. “No place for a horse on a ship,” he’d said regretfully to Cassandra when she had purchased the animal for the Seekers. “He’ll do better with someone who can ride him regularly; he gets bored in a stall.”

Trev listened carefully to Cassandra when the Seeker explained what had been done, how plans were developing, and how she intended to go forward. She offered opinions when she had them. She attended meetings between Cassandra, Emery, and the raven master. Officially, Asher was the person responsible for keeping the ravens and sending and receiving messages by them; but he also managed the couriers, and in fact had been placed in Vérité by Leliana as part of her network, with Cassandra’ assent. In those meetings Trev also was attentive and offered her opinion. But she seemed slightly distracted and remote throughout.

It was… odd. She had settled into Cassandra’s quarters with a lightness that sometimes made the Seeker wonder if she was really there, and then wonder why she wondered. She _was_ very much present in Vérité. She explored the keep at first, and then beyond, learning the shape of the land. The big hall of the old lodge had become an informal gathering place, and Trev sat there in the evenings sometimes. Many were curious about her, at least at first, so she drew attention and questions; people wanted to hear of how she had fought Corypheus, and what had happened with the Qunari. She was polite and friendly, but told few tales and none more than once, instead asking people to tell their own stories, questioning them in ways that drew them out until they had forgotten the questions that they had asked her. Some people who had been with the Inquisition were happy to tell stories of what she had done, if she would not do so, but when that happened she usually slipped out quickly.

Trev had always encouraged other people to talk, and listened to their stories, but she had said more; it had been an exchange. Now she seemed to have withdrawn from conversation, and only wished to hear tales, not tell them. When she had the choice, she said very little about anything, really, only listened, a slight frown of concentration on her face. It was as if she was waiting to hear something and was never satisfied.

She was still not sleeping well. Her nightmares had not faded as Cassandra had hoped they would after they left Skyhold, settled by time and distance.

“What do you dream of?” Cassandra had asked more than once in Skyhold, after Trev bolted upright in the darkness, shaking, and been pulled stiff and unyielding into her lover’s arms, to lie under Cassandra’s calming hands until the rigid muscles began to loosen. But Trev’s answers, though she would say more than she had after she first lost her hand, had been vague and unclear, and had become more so as time passed.

_Old fears._

_People who are dead._

_Old terrors, and some new ones._

_I don’t know._

_I don’t remember._

Over time Cassandra had given up asking; there was no point. The nightmares had been a constant as they travelled, but manageable. But now that they had reached Vérité, where the days were calm, safe, and entirely predictable, they had gotten more frequent. It made no sense; there was no threat here.

*        *        *

Traders had made Vérité part of their regular supply route now, ensuring reliability of provisioning. Shortly after Cassandra and Trev arrived one of the labourers, a middle-aged surface dwarf named Shenker, asked to see the Seeker.

“I’m working in the caverns right now,” she said. “But that’ll be done eventually, and I’m tired of travelling from job to job. I want to build a tavern here and run it. I’ve got traders who specialize in drink in my family, so I can get wine and spirits easily enough, and I know how to brew good ale.”

Cassandra, who had experience of dwarven ale, opened her mouth, but Shenker grinned. “Good ale by _human_ standards,” she said. “If you like, I can bring you some to try. I made it for myself and my friends.”

So that was where the ale the workers drank came from. They had been surprisingly evasive about the source, though they were happy to share it. “I’ve had it,” she said. “It’s a fine ale. Tell me what your plans for this tavern are.”

Shenker’s grin got wider.

“I need a building,” she said. “Standalone, with supply rooms and kitchens and a place for brewing as well as a common room. And rooms for travellers; might as well make it an inn as well. I know you’ll have guest rooms in the keep for the nobs who come, but traders and the like will be glad not to have to camp this high in the mountains, especially when the weather’s bad. This lodge would be perfect, but obviously you’re using it right now. My proposal is that we take or build an outbuilding that can be used as a temporary tavern for now, and I take over the lodge when the keep is finished and you all move into it. I can put a small brewery into one of the side caverns and divert water from the spring to it. If I put a gate on it I can use it for storing wine and liquor, too. I’ve got my eye on one that would work perfectly for that.”

“And your experience with running such a place?”

“Well now,” said the dwarf, “I’ve been a sort of jack of all trades; never wanted to settle down in one place when I was young. I worked as a trader for a time, and still have those connections. Then for a while I worked for taverns; that’s how I learned brewing. None of the sort of places with nobs for custom, but that doesn’t mean the ale wasn’t good. I’ve not owned my own place—never wanted to, because I didn’t want to settle anywhere for that long—but I’ve seen enough of their running to know how they work and know it’s something I can do.”

“The Seekers do not normally allow independent taverns in their holds,” said Cassandra slowly. “But it _is_ normal to have a brewmaster who is paid by the Order to provide drink and manage a common room to dispense it. And a brewmaster who also managed an inn would be well paid. Would you consider that option?”

“Huh,” said Shenker. “Wanted my own place, never thought about anything else.”

“Think about it,” said Cassandra, “and so will I, and discuss it with others in the Order. Let us meet and talk more in two days.”

“It would be a good thing,” Trev said later when Cassandra told her of the conversation. “Right now the workers and servants keep to themselves when they drink; they aren’t kept from the common room in the lodge, but it’s Seeker space, not theirs. You need a place where everyone can go and feel welcome. And Shenker’s ale is very good.”

“And you knew exactly where the workers’ ale came from, I gather?” said Cassandra, and her lover grinned.

The new tavern opened a month later, raw and roughly appointed but with a small supply of wines and spirits and a few barrels of good ale and more in reserve. A building used for storage had been emptied, albeit with some resultant crowding elsewhere, and Shenker’s store of illicit barrels moved into its cellar. The brewing supplies had been moved from their hiding place into the side cavern Shenker had marked and plans had been made for diverting water to it. Rough chairs and tables and a bar had been cobbled together by the workers in their spare time. The opening was a great success and Emery commented to Cassandra afterwards that they were going to need to expand the gaol.

Cassandra had thought that Trev had spent most of her time talking with others in the hold, but once the tavern opened it became clear that was not so, because that was where people went in their off time and her lover was not there. Where did Trev go? She thought about this for a few days and decided that the simplest way to find the answer was to ask.

“What do you do, when I am busy with work?”

“Riding, mostly,” said Trev. “Tarragon’s a good horse, but I want him to be better than good, and I want us to know every quirk of each other.” _You should not go alone_ , Cassandra thought, _not with a horse that is new to you_ , and bit the words back violently. But Trev was still speaking. “And I hunt for the cooks. I’ve never been that good with a bow, but I’m getting better.”

“I did not know you rode with the hunters.”

“I don’t. I tried that, but it’s their job, and they’re very serious about it, and think and speak of nothing else. I prefer to think about other things than hunting.”

 _What do you think of?_ thought Cassandra then, and was afraid to ask.

 

 

 

 


	10. The Inquisitor

The nightmares had changed somehow, Cassandra thought, in the weeks since they had come to Vérité. Now Trev seemed less violently disturbed by them but woke more often, drifting in and out of sleep many times a night. Cassandra would not have known, had she not stayed up late so often after Trev went to bed, reading reports and making notes for the next day, and heard her lover’s breathing catch and change and change again. Trev drifted between sleep and waking, floating on a slow current; Cassandra wondered if she was ever truly awake or asleep as she lay there. There were dark bruises under her eyes, and sometimes she seemed so distant from what was going on around her that it was as if she was no longer in Vérité at all. But she usually still focused quickly enough when required to; her mind was quick and incisive when Cassandra asked for advice or opinions.

Cassandra had not challenged Trev on her remoteness, which was worse when Trev’s dreams had been most disruptive, and seemed connected to them in some way. She did not know how to approach the matter. But she could not bring herself to ignore the distancing altogether, to pretend that nothing was happening. “You are so far away and distracted,” she said tentatively one morning, as they took their breakfast together. “You are still having nightmares.”

“They aren’t so bad as they were,” said Trev. She sounded almost defensive.

“But they still disturb your sleep.”

Trev shrugged. “I’m used to it. My dreams are old friends now.” She picked up a biscuit. “I’m off. I’m going to hunt today, the cooks have asked for extra for the pot, as the traders have come with Shenker’s supplies.” And then she was gone.

Normally she was not so quick to leave; it seemed that she still did not want to speak about her dreams, even to her lover.

Cassandra took up her work that day with a degree of distraction that was unusual; her self-discipline normally made it possible, if not exactly easy, to put things that troubled her aside into careful compartments that could be opened for examination later. But now she could not shake her worry, a low-grade unease that seemed unimportant on the surface but oozed its way through everything she did.

_Why will she not speak to me of her dreams?_

Perhaps she could not find words. Trev was far more able to say what she meant than Cassandra, but that did not mean she was always articulate. But that inability would not normally stop her from trying. She did not seem to want to try. _She does not want to speak of how she feels_.

The last time Trev had been so reluctant to speak of things that bothered her, it had been because the Mark had been killing her.

_That is not happening now. The Mark is gone; she has healed well; she is very healthy. She has not regained all the weight she lost when she was unwell, but she is strong and capable. There is no sign of weakness or illness._

_If it is battle fatigue…_

She let out a breath and put her head in her hands. _She is not dying. If it is battle fatigue, it is a question of time. She cannot be made to speak. These things cannot be forced. She must be allowed to go at her own speed, find her own way. I must not push her_.

By noon she had given up; she was not accomplishing anything. She set her work aside, told Emery that she was going out, and took her horse from the stables. She rode down the track that led to Vérité and then off on game trails to an open ridge, and then she let the gelding run.

It was high summer, and hot. By the time she slowed to a walk again, they were both sweating heavily and breathing hard. She could hear water falling over steep rocks, and followed the sound down into a small valley, found a stream and doused her head while the horse drank. And then she sat on a stone and stared at the patterns of the water while the horse grazed.

_I must be patient. If she will not speak to me, I must believe that it is not that she does not trust me; it is because in some way she cannot speak. I must not push. I must stand with her, and be patient, and help her as best I can._

_If only I knew_ how _to help._

 _Maker help me to find the right path_. She shut her eyes, and then knelt on the stony ground by the water's edge, and tried to pray.

It was late in the afternoon by the time she got back to Vérité, and handed her horse off to a stablehand. She felt more at peace, but also dreadfully tired. As she turned to go Trev rode into the yard, a brace of hares and a deer over her horse’s haunches, and slid to the ground. “Success!” she said. “Gerard, can you make sure these get to the butcher?”

“Yes, Inquisitor,” said the stablehand, and took the reins.

Trev was looking at Cassandra, puzzled. “Have you been riding?” She took a step nearer, and sniffed. “Yes, you certainly have. You need to bathe as much as I do.” She was frowning. “Has something happened? Is something wrong?”

It was reasonable that she should ask; Cassandra had been so busy that for quite some time she had barely left her room. “No,” she said. “I simply reached a point where I could not think and thought it would help to get out of the hold for a while.”

“I’m not surprised,” said Trev. “You’ve been working too hard. Well, let’s get clean clothes and visit the baths; we both need it.”

The path from the stables to their quarters in the old lodge took them past the stalls that the traders had set up, and it was there that Trev stopped dead, so suddenly that Cassandra jostled into her.

“Stroud!”

Cassandra, jolted out of her thoughts, looked around. Trev was staring at a clump of people who crowded near one of the stalls.

“I thought I saw Stroud,” said Trev uncertainly.

One of the men had a mustache, but it was not nearly so impressive as that of the Grey Warden. “Stroud is dead,” said Cassandra gently.

Trev’s shoulders slumped, and she turned away. “I know.”

She was silent the whole way to their quarters, saying only what was absolutely needful, silent while they collected clean clothing, silent while they washed themselves. It was only later, when they went to eat in the refectory and she responded to greetings, that her inertia seemed to break, and then she spoke to Cassandra casually of where she had ridden and the things she had said. But Cassandra could find little to say in return.

*        *        *

A couple of prospectors came with word that there was a previously undiscovered rift in a blind valley some distance from Vérité. It was a very small one, and in a remote area, but it still was a problem, and needed to be closed. But that was something Trev could no longer do.

There had been mages studying the nature of rifts, though. It was an odd, esoteric subject, and chancy for its scholars. One of them had come to Skyhold when the Inquisition had been warring with Corypheus, and she had not been quite right. But she had understood things that no others did, and had worked with the Inquisition mages, and some had trained with her. Now some of them understood how they could work together to use their abilities to close rifts, though they did not seem able to explain the process to others. Dagna had worked with them, and somehow created some kind of focusing device that would amplify their abilities. She wasn’t able to explain how it worked either, but it did. Cassandra sent word to Fiona.

It was some weeks before the mages arrived, but when they did an expedition was mounted: the mages, the Templars they had brought with them, and a contingent of fighters from Vérité. Cassandra and Trev rode with them. “I want to go,” Trev had said, her face closed and set.

Cassandra had looked at her and wondered why. Surely Trev had had enough dealings with rifts for one lifetime? “Then we will go,” she said.

It was a relief, in some ways, to get away from the hold; she had not realized how the work there had ground her down with its constant requirements. She had not had the time—or had not taken it—to ride out even for a full day, though she had managed some short breaks with Trev. _I must do this more often_ , she thought, _and not wait for such excuses. Things have settled a little now, it would not be impossible_.

Trev had little to say as they rode the rough trails, and Cassandra found herself wondering what her lover was thinking. Why did she want to attend this closing of the rift? It would be so different from her previous experiences; she would be an onlooker, a common fighter at best, not the one whose actions were at the centre of everything. Was that why, to settle that reality in her bones? Or was she simply curious as to what the mages did, as Cassandra was? She had not said, and Cassandra had not asked, feeling an awkwardness about the subject. Ridiculous. She had no reason to feel uncomfortable. She should have asked.

Everyone except herself seemed to take it for granted that Trev would go, seemed to expect it. Of course they would. She was still the Inquisitor in their minds, after all.

It could be dangerous. But there were plenty of people to guard the mages working to close the rift, and some of the mages themselves were there as fighters; Trev would be safe, or as safe as she would be anywhere.

The closing of the rift was fairly straightforward, in the end; the mages had done it before, and were practiced. Demons came out as they approached, of course, and the fighters had to deal with them. The mages surrounded the rift, one to each compass point, with fighters to protect them, and their leader brought out the focusing device. Cassandra could feel the hair on the back of her neck stir as they unleashed their power. But then there was a rage demon before her, and she had other things to think about.

After a time the rift winked out. It was not so sudden and violent an implosion as when Trev had done it; it was more of a shrinking, a fading. But the effect was the same in the end: it was gone. No one had been seriously hurt by the demons, and Trev was unscathed and had acquitted herself well in battle.

But she looked unsettled in some odd, undefinable way, seeming barely present as they rode home, taking to her bedroll early on the evenings following yet lying awake for hours. “You have been disturbed since the rift was closed,” Cassandra asked, three days later when they were back in Vérité and finally alone in their room and unpacking. “What is wrong?”

Trev looked at her properly for the first time in days, then her eyes drifted away. “I felt it,” she said, and then said nothing more.

“Felt what?” said Cassandra.

“The rift. I always felt it, when I had the Mark. I didn’t expect to feel it this time.”

Cassandra swallowed. “I would not have expected you to, either.”

“It was… different?” said Trev, doubtfully. “It used to hurt. This time it just… tugged.” She rubbed her upper arm reflectively. “Ah well, it’s not something I’m likely to encounter often. It just surprised me. Anyway, it all made me think about mages, and how useful they can be. Will you try to find some to work with the Seekers?” And Cassandra allowed herself to be distracted by the question. Afterwards, Trev seemed to have returned to the present, and be paying attention again.

Trev had not seemed particularly distressed by the fact that she had felt the rift. The same could not be said of Cassandra. Trev should not have felt anything. The Mark was gone, and with it so was her waking connection to the Fade.

Or it should have been.

“Still fighting rifts, Inquisitor?” called Gatsi from across the tavern, later, when they’d gone to relax with Emery and some of the others who had gone out. “Would’ve thought you’d be tired of them!”

“I’m just backup now,” said Trev. “The mages do the real work.”

“Ha!” said the dwarf. “I don’t think the Inquisitor will ever just be backup.”

Trev smiled, left the tavern a little later, and went to bed early.

*        *        *

Trev had gotten even more vague and unfocused after the rift was closed. Sometimes it seemed she was half asleep when waking; once or twice in a group she replied to someone’s words in a way that was very slightly off, almost as if she was having a different conversation than they were. Cassandra knew that she did not always pay full attention to things she was not interested in, but she usually paid enough that she could respond appropriately when spoken to. This level of distraction was new, and her jumpiness had returned: it had become easy to startle her, and her response when that happened was often more extreme than the situation called for. Cassandra had gotten careful about how she approached her lover.

Harding came to Vérité, and there was a happy reunion of those who had been at Skyhold. Trev liked and respected the scout immensely and enjoyed teasing her occasionally too-serious outlook on life. Cassandra shared that respect, thinking that Harding had always been far too self-deprecating.

“Sometimes I think you know half the people in Thedas,” Trev said to the scout on the first night of her visit, after the stream of old acquaintances had finally stopped. They were drinking in Shenker’s tavern, which had come to be known as The Surly Dragon. A sign hung outside its door, beautifully carved and painted; but the dragon had a frown and snarl and pattern of scales on its breast that was somehow familiar, and Cassandra was not sure she should be entirely pleased about the naming. (Trev, when asked her opinion it, had said that it was nice to have a reference to Vérité’s history, but there had been a hint of amusement that she had not been entirely able to hide.)

“Sometimes I think I do,” said Harding, laughing. “An awful lot of people worked with the Inquisition scouts, or were helped by them. And we moved around a lot. It means I can’t exactly be anonymous, but that also helps. People know I’m just a scout, so they don’t expect much from me. They just think I’m carrying messages.”

“It does not pay to underestimate a scout,” said Trev, smiling.

“Knowing people makes recruiting easier, as well,” said Harding more quietly. “I’ve got a lot of connections, and a pretty good idea of who’s reliable. It’s been useful, and I think we’ve found some good people. I’ll tell you what we’ve been doing when we meet tomorrow.”

And then someone else found them, and yes, it’s good to see you again, how did you come to be working at Vérité? Yes, I’ve been travelling, picking up work here and there, I wanted to see more of Thedas. Have you been to Antiva City? Amazing place, there’s a street paved with bricks coloured like the sea! Oh, but I don’t like sea travel. That’s just nasty.

Harding had come into her own, thought Cassandra.

The real meetings took place over the next few days, between Harding, Cassandra, Emery, Asher, and of course Trev. Cassandra had spread a map out over her table, and set out markers for them to use in their discussions; Emery, in her careful way, took notes.

There had been no trace of Solas (“Yet,” said Harding, evidently not discouraged by this). Leliana had felt that their first goal must be to find a way to track the activities of the Dread Wolf and his followers; this was proving difficult, but would surely not be impossible, and the activities Charter and Harding directed, and their recruitment of informants, were aimed toward that goal. Once they had more information about his activities and the scope of those allied to him they would be able to determine a plan of action.

But it would take time; the spy networks throughout Thedas were in disarray. Elves, mostly city elves, had been a part of them, and now it was not known what the elves were doing. Many had left their places as servants and disappeared, presumably to follow Fen’Harel, but not all. Something had happened to Briala’s network, but it was not clear exactly what; Briala had not disappeared with the others, and remained with Celene. But were those left trustworthy? Leliana trusted Charter implicitly, and so did Harding, but beyond that personal understanding and loyalty it was hard to say. Solas had placed so many spies that it was likely that many remained.

There were a few city elves at Vérité, some who had come from the Inquisition and some from other places. All had strong connections to other people who were well trusted, with demonstrated loyalty, and had explicitly said that they stood against Solas and his intentions. “I watch them,” said Asher, “and I watch those they are friends with, but so far I’ve seen nothing to show that they are not loyal. But of course any who are spies would know that they would be watched, and take care not to draw attention.”

“I advise you to keep watching,” said Trev, “but treat them justly and give them the benefit of the doubt. Give them positions of responsibility if they demonstrate their worth. They should not be demonized for the actions of others. We _must_ work with the elves, and do so fairly, or we will never be able to show Solas that he is wrong. We must be able to represent all races of Thedas, not just our own self-interest.”

“I agree,” said Cassandra, and the others all nodded. In this they were entirely in accord.

It was unclear what the position of the Dalish was with regard to Solas, or if there even was anything they held in common. Solas wanted to restore the world that had passed, but he had been the source of their fall in the first place, and they did not trust Fen’Harel. The Dalish had now been reduced to a point where he didn’t even really consider them elves, and some were very much aware of that. Furthermore, the clans were fiercely independent, and it was difficult to get information from them. “The connections you made in the Exalted Plains have been invaluable, Inquisitor,” said Harding. “Loranil has returned to his clan, but he’s kept in contact with Cullen, who’s passed on information to us. His reports of the Inquisition were good. Apparently Keeper Hawen is not impressed by what he’s heard of Fen’Harel’s plans, and has not chosen, so far at least, to support him.”

“That is good news,” said Cassandra.

“Yes,” said Harding, looking satisfied. “And it’s something that we may be able to leverage. Inquisitor, you have influence there; will you see if you can strengthen his opposition to Solas and encourage him to speak to other clans?”

Trev, who had been fiddling with a map marker, put it down carefully. “I doubt that I would have much influence over Keeper Hawen now.”

“Of course you do,” said Harding. “The Inquisition did a great deal for the clan.”

“But the Inquisition,” said Trev, “no longer exists.” She had gone very still. Something in her posture made Cassandra uneasy. She could see no reason for Trev to be angry, but there was an unhappy tension there.

Harding did not seem to notice. “But you are still the Inquisitor, and you _do_ have influence. They’ll listen to you.”

“I have no more influence than any other,” Trev said stubbornly.

Harding was clearly becoming annoyed with the Inquisitor’s refusal to acknowledge her point. “Of course you do. You don’t understand what—”

Trev slammed a fist down on the table, and all the markers jumped; two fell over.

“No. _You_ don’t understand,” she hissed. “My influence was based on the ability of the Inquisition to _do_ things, things that made a difference. There _is_ no Inquisition now. I cannot influence events. I cannot extend my will through the hands of others. I cannot even extend my will through my own two good hands! You think the Inquisitor is what she was, but I am _not_. You are dreaming if you expect it!”

“But—”

“The Inquisitor is not _real_!” shouted Trev furiously, and then wheeled and walked out of the room, leaving them all staring after her.

“I—” said Harding, then stopped, then started again more assertively. “I didn’t mean to upset her. She really does have influence. It’s not just the ability to do things because you’re the head of an organization. It’s that people trust her. Individuals, like Keeper Hawen. And they like her.”

 _Of course she has influence_ , Cassandra thought. _She has great influence, and it is because of who she is. But in Orlais the nobles treated her only as something to be trotted out for entertainment, a souvenir of frightening times, a good story. And she has lost so much that she does not see how much is left_.

But she did not say it aloud.

“I will speak with her,” she said.

As the meeting broke up, Harding pulled her aside. “Is she all right?” she asked.

Cassandra did not want to talk about this. “She has difficulty sleeping. It makes her short-tempered.” Harding regarded her silently, and Cassandra felt the weight of her judgement. “There are many adjustments she has had to make,” she said defensively.

“What I said to you before,” said Harding, “I still think it’s true.” But she left Cassandra alone after that, and did not challenge her further.

For once Cassandra did not leave Trev to settle her temper, but went looking for her. But the Inquisitor was nowhere to be found, and when she spoke to the stablemaster she found that Trev had ridden out on her horse. She could ride out in pursuit, but if Trev was that upset it would probably not be a good idea. Trev would come back.

Trev did come back, though by then it was after dark. The weather had turned to a cold sleeting rain, and when she entered their rooms she was dripping and shivering.

“You look chilled to the bone,” said Cassandra, glancing up from her book. “Go to the bathhouse and get warm. There’s food here when you come back, if you want it.”

Trev wordlessly set her armour and weapons on their racks, picked up a change of clothing, and disappeared.

She looked better when she returned, with some colour in her face. Cassandra had eaten in their room that night, and had made sure to arrange for more than she needed; there was a pot of soup that she’d put on the hearth to reheat while Trev bathed, and bread and sausage and cheese. “You must be hungry,” said Cassandra, “take some.”

Trev took a bowl of soup and some bread, and ate a few mouthfuls, and then put her spoon down. “If you are going to say something to me,” she said, “you might as well do it.”

“I love you,” said Cassandra, and Trev looked at her directly for the first time.

“But?”

“There is no _but_.”

Trev managed a kind of chuckle. “I will supply the _but_ , then.” The smile fell off her face. “But you are unreasonable. But Harding did nothing to deserve your anger. But you do have influence. But you are being foolish. And they are all true.”

“I think I hear a _but_ to that, as well,” said Cassandra.

Trev was silent for a long time, playing with the piece of bread, tearing it into little pieces. “But I am not wrong, either.” Then she sighed, and pushed back from the table, and walked over to the hearth, standing so Cassandra could not see her face. “Everything ended, when the Qunari were driven back, and Solas took my hand, and the Inquisition was disbanded. Everything died then. What is left is a corpse walking.”

“ _You_ lived,” said Cassandra, disturbed.

“Yes,” said Trev, expressionlessly. “But the Inquisitor died.”

“You are still the Inquisitor,” said Cassandra uncertainly. “It is a title that is not backed by political power anymore, but it is backed by respect and the love of many people.”

“I don’t know what I am,” said Trev bleakly. “But it is not the Inquisitor.”

Cassandra sat immobile for a moment, and then she carefully put down her book, marking the place. She knew that she did not entirely understand what Trev meant. She did not know how to respond, though she knew she must. She only understood that this was what her unease, the subtle sick terror that had spread over her like molasses over the past months, had led to. “Tell me,” she said.

“I don’t know how.”

If Trev did not know how to answer, Cassandra did not know how to ask a better question. She said nothing. And after a time, haltingly, Trev began to speak.

“I’m not the same person I was. Things have changed. It’s not just the hand. It _is_ the hand, because I can’t do what I used to do, and that changes things. But it’s not just the hand. You’re the Seeker. You’ll always be the Seeker, because seeking truth is what you do. It always has been and always will be, and the title isn’t really even important. You have a purpose, do you see? And even if you were to stop rebuilding the Seekers, and do something else, it would be the same. The core wouldn’t change.”

The words were tumbling out now, as if from behind a dam, and she had turned to face Cassandra. “I was the Inquisitor, and the Inquisition is gone. Others had places to go to when it ended; Cullen, Josephine, Leliana. You. You all know what you are. People like Petros know what they are now, and that’s far more than I do. I was the Inquisitor, but the truth is that I was made that by chance, because Solas made mistakes that put the Mark on my hand; it was nothing that I did, nothing that was part of the core of me. I didn’t know what I was doing. Half the time I was just trying to keep my head above water.”

“It was _not_ just the Mark,” said Cassandra fiercely. “You did bring skills to it, and strength and intelligence. When you did not know what to do you learned. You were a _good_ Inquisitor. No one else could have done what you did.”

“Maybe not,” said Trev. “But now it doesn’t need to be done, and I don’t know what else to do, or even what I _can_ do. I can’t even do much to help in the struggle against Solas. Others are doing that now, like Harding. That’s where the real work is being done.” She sighed. “Maybe that’s why I got so angry at her.”

“We knew that would be the case,” said Cassandra. “We cannot be in the forefront; he understands us too well, it would be too easy to counter our efforts. All we can do is try to offer support to others. That choice does not reflect on your abilities.”

“But it does,” said Trev. “As the Inquisitor I could have offered so much to them; now I can’t, because all that’s left is the name, and my personal abilities, and they amount to _nothing_. Don’t you see? It’s the things that I’ve done that have made me what I am. And all of the things that made me what I am have changed. I left my home because I couldn’t be what they wanted me to be, I made myself into something, I took employment as a fighter. Now even that’s impossible. I was known for my abilities in combat, but now I will never have the skills I did. It’s not that I _need_ to work as a fighter. I won’t starve if I don’t, I have enough coin to retire. And maybe I would have just retired, if things had been different. But that would have been my choice, not something that happened to me. And I don’t want to retire. I want to _do_ things. And I can’t do things, because I’m not what I was.”

“You are more than just a fighter.”

“But what am I?”

“I cannot tell you that, not as you mean it. You must find the words.”

“It’s not just finding words.” Trev hesitated. “I know what I am not. I need—I need to find out what I am.”

"You are everything that you have ever been," Cassandra said helplessly.

Trev took a few steps forward and reached out and touched the side of her face. “No. I am not. And what is left of what I was is… broken. We both know that.”

“You are _not_ broken,” said Cassandra fiercely. _Battle fatigue_ , said Harding’s voice, faintly.

“No,” said Trev. “I am. Be honest.” Her face was closed and stubborn.

Cassandra felt as if she was slowly being strangled. “You may be suffering from battle fatigue,” she finally managed. “But you will recover from that. Things will be easier.” _I love you. I love you. None of this matters. I love you whether you are Inquisitor or not, whether you have two hands or not, whether you are broken by battle fatigue or not_. “The core of you is the same: your honesty, your kindness. That is as true of you as it is of me. That is what matters.”

Trev flushed. Her face had relaxed a little when Cassandra had said the words, and now she ducked her head. “You give me more credit than I deserve.”

“No, I do not,” said Cassandra, reaching out to take her hand. “You are not always kind. You are not always completely honest. You are not perfect, who is? But you try, and at the core you do not change. That is what I love.”

“You are so certain,” said Trev, swallowing hard.

“Yes,” said Cassandra. “I am.” Trev had not taken her hand away; Cassandra held it like a lifeline. _Do not let go. Do not leave me_.

There was a small muscle moving in Trev’s jaw, tensing and releasing. “I need to find what I can be now. To leave behind the past. Not just drift in fragments as a memory of what I was, or an appendage to someone else.”

An appendage.

“You are saying,” said Cassandra slowly, after a little silence, “that as long as you remain with me, you will only be known as my lover.”

“No! …Yes.” Trev swallowed. “Not just as your lover. As your lover and the former Inquisitor. One of those things is no longer me. The other is true—I _am_ your lover, I want to be your lover always. I am _not_ disavowing you. I am _not_ leaving you. I am trying to find a way to hold on to you, to find ground to stand on that will let me hold on to you. It’s just—being your lover is not all that I am. It—maybe it’s as if you were only known as the Hero of Orlais and the niece of Vestalus, and not as the Seeker.”

 _I would hate it_. “One is the past, and the other is only an extension of another,” said Cassandra slowly. “And without my being the Seeker they are meaningless. I think I do understand.” _Oh, my heart, no_. “What do you want to do?”

“I want to go away. I want to travel through Thedas, and see what is happening. I can’t stay here. I feel like I’m drowning, or dreaming. Like I’m not really here. I feel like nothing matters. And when I’m not feeling like that I want to bite things. People. I don’t know how to stop feeling those things, or not feeling them. Sometimes I want to bite you, and I hate that. I don’t want to hurt you, I love you. I need to find a way to swim, not drown. I need to find a way to choose my direction.”

 _I could go with you_ , thought Cassandra. _You should not travel alone, it is not safe_. But she held the words behind her teeth. “I cannot go with you. Not now.”

“I know,” said Trev, and shut her eyes.

“You could visit our old companions, or some of them,” Cassandra said after a little while. “And then rejoin me later at Vérité when you are ready. It may be that you will always need to travel sometimes, and come back, and go out again.” _But come back to me. Please. Always come back to me_.

The look of relief on Trev’s face almost undid her. “Yes. I think I would like to do that. All of us have had our lives changed. I would like to see how they’ve managed it.” She looked at Cassandra, her face for once unguarded. “I will come back, I promise. I just need… time.”

“Then you must go,” said Cassandra. _Oh, my heart, do not break. She will return_. “But you must write; and if you can plan from one place to another where you will travel, I can send letters ahead to wait for you. I—I do not want to lose all contact.”

“Of course I will!” said Trev. “I’ll make a plan. We’ll be able to use the network Leliana set in place; you have ravens here. It might not be the most appropriate use of resources, if you would prefer to use couriers, but—”

“We will use ravens when we can,” said Cassandra. “Now will you eat properly? You have barely touched your soup.”

“Come to bed with me,” said Trev later, after she had eaten and was stripping her clothes off. “I want to hold you.”

 _I do not know if I can do this_ , thought Cassandra. _I do not want my pain to set fetters on her, and I do not know if I can conceal it when we are so close_. But she set down the book she had only been pretending to read, and went to her lover.

It did not matter, in the end, because Trev wept too, and then lay staring into the darkness. “I must go,” she said.

“I know,” said Cassandra into her hair.

It was like watching a wild bird, a swan, she thought, regal and distant. The black eye was liquid and strange, cold and mad and close and distant and staring at something she could not see. The bird would fly soon. In some ways it had already gone.

She felt something twitch in the centre of her, an itching, a stretching, a pain; her heart, or something feathered. It didn’t matter. She would endure, and Trev would come home to her.


	11. From the road

**_Letter from Inquisitor Trevelyan to Seeker Pentaghast:_**

17 Kingsway

My dearest Cassandra,

It seems silly to start writing to you at the end of my first day of travel, when nothing whatsoever of interest has happened, but I already miss you. I know you think I was altogether too eager to leave, but please, never think that it was without pain. You’re never far from my thoughts, and tonight I feel your absence in every bone in my body, every fibre of my being. I feel like something essential has been torn from me. Or that I have torn myself to shreds. I don’t know.

But I must do this, and I will come back to you. I promised, and I meant it.

Today’s journey was uneventful. If all the days are like this I will probably have little news to report. Descriptions of the weather are all very well, but can get awfully monotonous, especially if it stays as dull and grey and wet as it has been today. I imagine you’re getting the same, so there are no surprises there. I hope that this doesn’t last for the entire trip to Cumberland, or I will run out of oil for Dagna’s arm!

The scouts didn’t bother hunting today, as we’re well supplied from Vérité, but the three of them had put together camp and started making supper almost before I could turn around. You can certainly tell they’ve travelled together before, they are so efficient as a team that it’s terrifying and makes me feel most inadequate! But I have the benefit of their abilities and good company, so I suppose it’s a fair tradeoff. I’m glad Asher sent them to Nevarra City at a time when I was able to travel with them.

I will try to sleep now, as the candle is burning low, and continue this tomorrow.

I miss you so dreadfully, my love.

18 Kingsway

Still raining. The roads are in even worse shape than usual. The washouts are not serious, but picking a way around them does take time. A goat track is a goat track, after all, even a goat track that has been improved enough to take a wagon.

Darcy shot a couple of hares and we ate a good stew tonight, and I made another discovery. It turns out that Emilio tells bad jokes. Very bad jokes. I am not sure that he will survive to the end of the journey if he keeps this up; Carter has very little sense of humour. Not of that sort, at any rate. I am attempting to restrain myself from joining in, as to have jokes coming from both sides might provoke her far too much. It is rather like travelling with you, though she doesn’t make the same delightful disgusted noises.

I miss you. I know I wrote that yesterday. I think I will be writing it every day I am away from you.

19 Kingsway

Still raining. We encountered traders on their way to Vérité and warned them about the washouts, but they seem ready to do their own repair work. A benefit of trading with dwarves, that. Tracks and trails must seem ridiculously easy to maintain to a people who built the Deep Roads. Anyway, they’re carrying an immense load of wine and spirits for Shenker. You’d better expand the gaol.

I’m going to give them this letter to give to you. I know it’s ridiculous, it’s only been three days, but I feel so lonely without you that I must reach out in some way. Maker, how I miss you.

All my love,

Trev

* * *

Cassandra put the letter down, smiling to herself. The days since Trev had left had been very bleak, and to receive this note was an unexpected comfort. It was one of the things Cassandra most loved about her: Trev never cared if others thought her foolish when her actions were guided by love.

She had felt so out of sorts, so frustrated, so bereft since Trev left. It was ridiculous. They had often been separated by duty. This should not have upset her so.

But Vérité was hers in a way that Skyhold had never been. She had wanted it to be home to both of them, and Trev had wanted only to leave. Cassandra felt—she didn’t know what she felt. She didn’t know if she wanted to know what she felt.

But Trev missed her too, desperately. Trev would come back. She had promised.

* * *

**_Letter from Inquisitor Trevelyan to Seeker Pentaghast:_**

20 Kingsway

Dearest Cassandra,

We have had a day’s break from the rain, thank the Maker, though the clouds are still looming and there is a bank of them ahead of us. I will keep my fingers crossed.

It was so hard to explain to you why I had to leave. I don’t know if I succeeded; I can barely understand it myself. The scouts must think I’m very dull, because I rarely say much while we’re riding. Some of it is because I’m trying to work this all out in my head, to understand. I wish I could concentrate better, so that I could solve the problem of myself and return to you, but all too often my thoughts just seem to float away and I find myself thinking of a hole in my stockings, or the bird flying across the sky above, or nothing at all.

I love you. I miss you. That’s the part I do understand.

The forest was very beautiful today. I wish you could have seen it. The leaves have turned colour but not fallen here, and were still wet, and they glimmered in the sunlight till everything seemed aflame. I felt as if everything had a halo of fire, myself included, as if I had no edges. It was strange but not unpleasant. At one point a couple of mountain goats crossed the trail ahead of us and scrambled up an impossible cliff, so light on their feet they scarcely seemed real.

That’s how I was feeling in Vérité, without the imaginary flames. Nothing was real. Nothing had anything to do with me. That’s what I meant when I said the Inquisitor was dead: I had ceased to be real.

I think that’s what I meant. It’s so hard to explain.

You were so very there, in Vérité. It’s your place, it’s where you belong. ~~I felt as if I was still travelling~~ It’s your ground to stand on. But I feel as if there’s no solid ground beneath me, wherever I am. ~~Everything changes~~ ~~is the same except me~~

Ah, this is impossible. I feel as if I’m trying to justify myself to you, but in truth I’m trying to justify myself to me. You understand better than I do, I think.

But I love you, never doubt that. I miss you.

21 Kingsway

Raining again, and the going has been slow.

I was thinking of my family today, I don’t know why. It’s strange, to have family that hates you. I can’t be sorry about my brother Eiric—there’s far too much history between us for me to feel anything towards him but disgust and hatred back. I suppose what I should really feel is pity. Well, maybe that will come someday.

But for the rest—my other brothers and I were never close. My mother loves me, I suppose. But not enough to go against my father. And my father’s love wasn’t enough to stand against his determination that I should be something I was not. It was a very conditional sort of love. Is that love at all? ~~Maybe it’s not love but~~ Maybe he never really cared for me, as a person, only as an extension of himself and his idea of what Trevelyans should be.

But home should be ground to stand on, shouldn’t it? Not something shifting and conditional. You understand that. Your home was torn to pieces around you too, and more than once, if not in exactly the same way.

You found your feet in the Seekers, and stand strong. ~~I’m still falling~~ I feel as if I’ve been dancing on shifting sand ever since I left my home, never finding anything solid. It looks pretty good, I’m a pretty good dancer, but my dance is for survival. I want to stop. I stopped for a little while in Skyhold after we killed Corypheus, but now I’m dancing again.

You are solid. But I can’t stand on you. I need to stand beside you. Maker, I miss you.

23 Kingsway

We have stopped in Perendale for two nights to replenish supplies and dry out our gear; even well-oiled leather had been starting to mildew. Much longer and there would have been moss growing on us. The locals tell us that they expect the weather to improve. Finally!

It was nice to sleep in a bed for a change. Maker, I wish I found it easier to sleep; it seems such a waste of a soft bed to lie awake. But it was especially good to have a proper bath. Between the mildew and the bad weather discouraging bathing, we’d all begun to stink. Perendale, being very Orlesian in nature, takes these things seriously, and although we could have had baths drawn in our rooms, we were recommended to a bathhouse a short distance away. The whole experience was closer to what I would expect to find in Val Royeaux than in a remote city with mining as its primary purpose. Or maybe miners particularly like luxurious, self-indulgent baths when they come to the city? There would certainly be reason for it.

There were a pair of children, I think they belonged to the innkeeper, twins. Likely about seven or maybe eight years old? I don’t know children well enough to tell. Smart little things. They were helping around and about, but not all the time. I first encountered them properly in the stables—I’d gone up into the hayloft because Carter was in the room we shared and I wanted time alone and I thought I might be able to take a nap. Small chance when there are children around! Evidently the loft was one of their special places, and they weren’t too happy to find a stranger there. But when I apologized to them and offered to leave they were quite magnanimous about the whole thing, and gave me permission to stay. In exchange, they wanted stories about where I’d been and what I’d done.

You will forgive me as well, I hope, when I tell you that you were the hero of my stories. They were most impressed by the fact that I knew the Seeker, the Hero of Orlais, and had fought beside her.

They were so excited by the stories, so set alight. You could see them looking at their own futures, and planning that they too would do something so wonderful, so important. The girl said very seriously that she too was going to become a Seeker and be a hero. Not as a result of my stories—she had already decided long ago. She had heard of your rebuilding, you see, and knew it was somewhere not so far away. The boy wants to be an alchemist or healer, and travel. They see the world in such bright colours. I can barely remember what that is like. I can remember having that excitement, that brilliance of being in the world, but it seems so far away. Everything has been soft and grey and not quite real for a long time. I need to find a way to bring back the colour, the meaning, the caring.

I don’t mean that I don’t care. I do. ~~I just can’t feel things as~~ ~~But everything is different when~~ The feelings are there. ~~I just can’t find~~ It’s just that everything seems muted somehow. Maybe this is something that happens as we get older, we forget the wonder and excitement we felt as children? I don’t think so. I can remember everything being bright, not so long ago. I want that back.

I miss you, my love.

29 Kingsway

We are in lower country now, getting close to Hunter Fell, and making better time. The hunting is better, too, and we can find good forage for the horses more easily. Other than that, there is nothing in particular to report.

I have been re-reading what I last wrote. I hope it does not alarm you, my love. It is because I want to regain my colour, my joy, that I am doing this. I want my time with you to be as real and steady as the sunrise, as the waves of the ocean.

I miss you so much, Cassandra.

13 Harvestmere

I arrived in Nevarra City two days ago and have been exploring. I know you are not fond of it, but I find it a fascinating place. Do you remember Skerrit, the sergeant who died in the battle against the qunari? I could have sworn I saw him here, turning a corner, but when I followed there was nothing. I must have just seen something on another’s face that reminded me of him. I so often do see something of the dead on other people’s faces, or other things from the past, and certainly Nevarra is a place that is explicitly designed to remind one of the dead.

Last night I visited your uncle, who received me most graciously over an excellent dinner. He is well, and sends his regards. He said something about sending a letter to you; perhaps you’ve already received it.

We spent a great deal of time discussing history, and I enjoyed myself immensely. You know I take an interest in that subject, and in how what is thought to be true compares to legends and stories—it is so hard to separate truth from fiction, and so interesting to try to do so. He has insights into some of the things I have wondered about, and has given me a great deal to think about.

Do you remember the Tevinter ruins in the Frostback Basin? Well, I know you do, but I meant do you remember them as ruins, what they looked like; our focus was elsewhere when we were there and I was not paying a great deal of attention. Vestalus has a theory that Tevinter architecture owes even more to the dwarves than we think. We know about their great embassies, of course, and their influence on the buildings in their largest cities, but it is his theory that there were dwarven builders in all parts of the Imperium when it controlled Thedas. I argued against this—the Deep Roads do not extend under all those lands, as far as we know, and the greatest dwarven builders are not likely to have travelled on the surface—but really it was for the fun of the argument. So much of what the dwarves built underground is lost now that it may well be that there were connections to other places. Now that he has put the idea in my mind, I would be interested in going back to some of those places to look at them again.

Your uncle also told me an anecdote about the first time you were taken to the crypt of Caspar Pentaghast, and the bravery with which you faced the corpse when a spirit moved it. I am not sure that I could have been so courageous! But I shall never understand the Mortalitasi, I am afraid.

I will leave your scouts here to do their business; I know that they plan to send a raven in the next day or two, and it will carry this letter for me. There are plenty of caravans heading south toward Cumberland that I can accompany, and tomorrow I shall enquire as to who is travelling soon. I would prefer to go alone, but I know you are concerned about my safety, so I will be good, this time at least.

The forecasts are good, so we should make excellent time. After that much will depend on how quickly I can find a ship sailing east, and of course, the weather. I will send my next missive after I arrive in Kirkwall, as I know you keep ravens to exchange news with Varric.

All my love to you, my heart, my home. I hope that you can feel a fraction of what I mean in the words I send. I miss you dreadfully.

Trev

* * *

_**Letter from Seeker Pentaghast to Inquisitor Trevelyan:** _

23 Kingsway

My beloved,

I was so happy to receive your first note less than a week after you left—it was the last thing I expected. Ridiculous to send so soon, perhaps, but it raised my heart greatly.

I’m sorry that the weather was so bad for you, but I believe that is a rule of travelling: the condition of the weather must match the roads, to make every day on poor tracks as miserable as possible. Certainly this is a rule I am very familiar with.

I suppose that now it will be much longer until I hear from you again, but that note will sustain me, my love.

17 Harvestmere

And now the bird from the scouts has arrived, and I know that you are well. I shall send this message by raven to Kirkwall when I finish it, so it awaits you there. You must tell me of the estate Varric has ~~saddled you with~~ given to you, and whether you find it comfortable.

To reply to some of the things you have mentioned: I am sorry that thoughts of your family bring you such grief. You know my views on Eiric, and I have not much better opinion of the others. And I think it is a good thing that I am unlikely to meet your father. ~~I am not certain that~~ ~~Families should be~~ ~~Families owe each other~~ Bonds of love should unite families; that they do not in this case is in no way your fault.

The twins in Perendale certainly have impressive skills if they were able to get you to tell tales. But I am not certain that I approve of your subject matter.

Your report on them made me think of the youngest Seeker apprentices. When Lord Seeker Lucius perverted the Seekers he did at least send the apprentices who had not stood their vigil back to their homes. I imagine that he did not want the notice of their parents to fall on him as it would if he had kept them, but still it was well done.

Normally Seeker candidates begin training at the age of six; I was an exception, coming in at twice that age. But I did well, and I cannot believe that I am so unusual. It may be that other children will be able to succeed from an older age. We are at the point now of being able to begin to train children again, and perhaps it is time to recruit a few. Possibly some of the youngest that Lucius dismissed could be found again. And perhaps your twin’s parents would be amenable to her coming to Vérité; it is not so far, after all. I will consider this more. What is the name of the inn you stayed at?

23 Harvestmere

I am glad that you visited my uncle. Yes, he did send me a letter. It is sitting on my table now. I have made several attempts to answer it but have not yet finished. I find it hard to write to him; my habits are hard to change, it seems. But you know that.

Ah, that old tale of visiting Caspar Pentaghast’s crypt. I remember it very clearly: the whole thing seemed so pointless to me. I am not certain why my uncle thought my reaction so unusual that he found it necessary to remark on. Nevarran dead are dead, and well-guarded by Mortalitasi spells; the spirits that take their bodies are weak and do little. It had all been explained to me long before that there was no reason to be frightened, and I was not. Yes, it is disconcerting to see a corpse move and moan, but it is more sad than alarming. Why bother to trap a spirit like that? And why build such elaborate crypts, full of valuable artifacts that could be put to better use? Caspar Pentaghast’s sword would have done far more good in the hands of a person who was alive. It is not logical.

2 Firstfall

A good quantity of the contents of Shenker’s caravan have already been consumed. Your prediction of the need for a larger gaol has so far not been borne out, though not from the lack of trying by some. But Emery and I consulted, and agreed that as everyone had been working for so long, there should be a proper festival for Satinalia. Vérité has celebrated it before, of course, but we did not have the resources to do so impressively. This time we added two days of rest to the day proper, one before and one after, so that people would have time to prepare and to recover. The coincidence of the festival and the receipt of the shipment to Shenker meant that much of the wildness that would normally have followed the arrival of such a load of wine and spirits was channelled into celebrations, and this kept most people in cheerful moods. Our gaol was certainly occupied, but by no more than the usual numbers.

I wish that you could have been there, my love; you would have enjoyed it immensely. The masks were astonishing. I think that people had worked on them for a long time. But you will not miss out entirely: I have a gift for you, ready for your return. Were you able to celebrate at all, while on the road?

Things go well with the building. The roof on the keep is now complete, which is a very good thing as the weather is getting worse. The floors are going up next, with the fireplaces set against the walls. The masons have challenged the carpenters, and have laid bets on who will be finished first; one would think it would be the carpenters, but Gatsi’s masons work with extraordinary speed.

Several trade caravans have arrived in the last couple of weeks. We may receive one or two more, but it is late in the season now and soon the road will be impassable. We already have the materials we need to finish the keep, so we will be able to keep working throughout the winter. We will be in comfort, even snowed in.

I am glad that you left before the snows came; you needed to move, to do something, and I think that it would have driven you mad to be so closed in for a season.

My love, I miss you so much, every moment of every day. I ache for you. ~~I wish~~ But I think that I understand why you needed to go. I think that I understand what you say about having a place to stand, and why Vérité cannot be that for you now. I hope that someday it will be, ~~I could not bear~~ at least for some of the time. I know that you will find your footing, and your joy in life, and that when you do you will return to me.

_[More writing, scribbled out and indecipherable]_

I want to say more, but I cannot find the words. I will close this letter now, and send it. I will look for your reply.

All my love,

Cassandra

* * *

Cassandra folded the letter carefully and affixed her seal. It was too late to deliver to Asher now; she would give it to him first thing next morning. The weather was not good, but it was not poor enough to interfere with the sending of messages by raven. With luck, it would be waiting for Trev in Kirkwall when she arrived. It was not the best of letters—too much of it, on rereading what she had written, seemed stilted and awkward and altogether uninteresting to her ears—but at least it said some of what she wanted to say, if not so eloquently as she wished.

Trev’s letter, which she had read over and over again, was far more relaxed and conversational and encouraging. Her lover sounded more alert and involved in the world around her than she had in months; it seemed that the decision to travel had been a good one for her, and Cassandra was very glad for that.

But for herself, it was as she had said: Trev’s absence was an emptiness, a constant ache. She wanted to tell her lover how she felt, exactly how she missed her, how much it hurt. But that would not be fair. And in any case, she knew she did not have the skill to say what she felt, not really. She had never been able to make words do as she wished, and now that lack felt desperately dangerous, as if she would not be able to keep hold, as if Trev would slip further and further away.

She stood and walked to the bed, bent to pull off her boots, and then sat still, overwhelmed by a sudden rush of loneliness. And then she shook herself. This was ridiculous. They had been apart far longer than these scant weeks, and she had never felt this way. She must pull herself together. Trev would return. Everything would be well.

But insisting on that to herself, no matter how firmly she did so, did nothing to reassure her. She reached out blindly and found warm fur, and the engine of a purr that started instantly at her touch, a kind of comfort she could pull to herself and hold. Handful had come with the last caravans: a Satinalia gift that Trev would not expect. A gift for both of them, really. It had taken a few days of suspicion and then a few more of noisy, obstinate contrariness before she settled in properly—cats not raised to it did not like to travel. At first it had been rather like having a tiny Chancellor Roderick sharing her quarters, Cassandra thought. But now she seemed to have forgiven Cassandra. Trev would have to fight for her space on the bed when she returned.

 _Come home to me_ , she thought, stroking the little cat’s head. _Come home safely to both of us_.

* * *

_**Letter from Inquisitor Trevelyan to Seeker Pentaghast:** _

25 Harvestmere

Dearest Cassandra,

I found a caravan travelling to Cumberland without any difficulty and accompanied them the whole way. It would have been quicker travelling alone, but the caravan master and his crew were good sorts, and pleasant to be with, and there were a few other travellers accompanying them who were also good folk. If they knew who I was they did not mention it, but certainly I was very well treated. I made an effort to recruit their cook to Vérité, but she just laughed at me.

The weather had cleared—one of those spells in fall where it pretends that winter is not really coming—and we made good time. The trip was entirely uneventful; the caravan was large and well-guarded, so if there were any brigands or wolves considering attacking, they thought better of it.

I am restocking my supplies here and have found a merchant sailing east and stopping in Kirkwall. She is a tough old woman named Cress, grey-haired with a lined face, with almost as many scars as you; I think she has not always been a merchant. We sail tomorrow morning early; I have asked the innkeeper to wake me when he rises to light the baking fires.

Still missing you, my love.

1 Firstfall

I have not been able to write for some days, as the seas have been too rough to allow the use of ink and a quill, but the winds have finally dropped and we are sheltered overnight in a cove with good protection.

To be honest, it was not just the roughness of the seas that prevented me. I have sailed before with no difficulty, and I am a good sailor. Or so I thought. But I suppose that I’ve never sailed in weather quite so challenging, and, well, I did not rise from my bunk for almost three days, and they were not at all a pleasant three days. But I’ve finally found my sea legs, just as the winds have begun to die. The timing is really rather annoying—I should like to have stood on the heaving deck, lashed by wind and rain, water running through the scuppers—you see that I am learning new words—and shouting my defiance to the storm.

Or perhaps not. I cannot imagine how the sailors stand in such chaos, much less do their work. I have collected a set of bruises from falling against things that rivals any I have ever gained in combat.

The food tonight was a spiced fish stew made from what the sailors caught after we came into this cove, and tastes amazing. I am so grateful to be able to eat again.

Tomorrow we set forth again, and if winds and weather hold as the captain expects them to, we should be in Kirkwall in three days.

I wish you were here with me, and not because I would love to know if your sea legs are better or worse than mine. (Better, I hope; I would not wish my experience on you, my love!)

2 Firstfall

Sailing in good weather with a good wind is so very different than fighting for every inch against a gale that seems to want to do nothing but destroy you, I must say. The last two days have been delightful.

I have asked the captain if she knows Admiral Isabela. I have never seen such a sly grin as the one she gave me. “Oh yes,” she said. “We met, years ago.” And then she enquired as to whether I had had the pleasure. I allowed that we had met, but that I did not know her well. “A shame,” she said. “That woman deserves more than mere acquaintance.” And then she winked at me, I swear.

I have spent most of my time sitting in a corner on deck, away from where the sailors work, and watching the sea pass by. It is cold, but I take quilts from my bunk and wrap myself warmly. In the sunshine the water is blue, it is green—sometimes it’s hard to see where sea ends and sky begins. Everything slides together, indistinctly, except the ship. Sometimes I feel as if I could slide into the sea and dissolve into blue, into green. It’s very restful, and when I lose myself in watching time passes quickly. I feel as if I could do this forever. But it would be different, I suppose, if I was one of those who had to work.

I wish you were here with me to share it.

4 Firstfall

My love, all is well—I have arrived safely in Kirkwall and after some hectic hours I am installed in the estate Varric gave me. I expect to be here for some time. Your letter was waiting for me; what a joy! I will send this to you now, before replying to it, so that you do not worry that you have not heard from me.

I miss you, I want you, I love you. I will come back to you.

Yours always,

Trev


	12. Kirkwall: arrival

_**Letter from Inquisitor Trevelyan to Seeker Pentaghast**_

4 Firstfall

Dearest Cassandra,

I have sent my letter off and immediately begun to write another. Our correspondence seems a tenuous connection, but it is one that I cannot bear to break for an instant.

I said that things were hectic when I arrived, and that was not an exaggeration. We got to Kirkwall more or less at mid-day. It took a little time to disembark and pay off Captain Cress, and then I hired a porter to carry my bags to Viscount’s Keep. Varric was not there, though Bran was, unfortunately. I say “unfortunately” because of course, it being Bran, questions of protocol arose. I was immediately ensconced in Varric’s office, and tea was brought, and food, and various nobles who insisted on paying their respects. Maker, I thought I’d escaped all that. At least the food was good.

Varric appeared within the hour—Bran evidently knew exactly where to find him—and finally rescued me, shooing them all out the door and locking it. He had a bottle of brandy in his desk, much welcome after all the tea and the foolishness that came with it. “Next time,” he said, “go first to the Hanged Man. You’re as likely to find me there as here, and without all the idiots that this place spawns. And if I’m not there the barkeep can send word here.” I shall certainly take his advice.

After we’d had a little time to talk, he took me to the estate he’d given me. As I’d sent a message ahead to announce that I was coming, he’d been able to arrange to have it cleaned and prepared, and had hired a small staff—a housekeeper, cook, and maid—to look after me while I’m in Kirkwall. He recommends that the housekeeper be kept as permanent staff, to oversee the place even when I’m not here, and hire servants as needed when it’s occupied. This is the same arrangement that Hawke has for her estate, with Varric given authority over all in her absence. The expense is relatively small, and can easily be covered by some local investments that Varric made for me, so I’ve agreed to his suggestion.

Certainly I don’t expect the housekeeper, Isera, to have a great deal of work to do in the future, but it’s a good job for someone who needs one, and people do need work. Kirkwall is still suffering from the effects of the past years, though Varric’s efforts in rebuilding have made quite a difference. Isera is from the alienage, which has suffered particularly badly. Many elves have gone, but some do still remain, and they have a hard time of it. Varric says his friend Merrill will vouch for Isera’s honesty, and that she is not one of those who follow Solas, and I will take him at his word. It’s hard enough for elves to find decent work here.

It could be dangerous for one person alone in a well-appointed house, given the level of poverty and need that exists here, but Isera keeps a mabari, an enormous animal named Petal, so even alone in the estate she will be well defended. Petal has been informed that I am permitted access, and so now I may come and go, but I must say that the first time we met I was not quite certain of my chances of survival. But I have brought her gifts since then, bones and a stuffed toy wolf, and I think we are friends. Maybe.

Isera tells me that she found Petal as a starving pup beside her dead mother and took her in. Mabari are valuable animals, but not as respected in Kirkwall as they are in Ferelden, having been tarred with the reputation assigned to refugees, so they’re much more likely to be neglected strays here.

“I didn’t have enough for me, really, but she wasn’t very big. Not then,” said Isera. “Later when she got bigger it was more difficult to get food for her, but she’s always pulled her own weight.”

I imagine this is an understatement, in quite a few ways. It’s not easy to gain the loyalty of a mabari, and requires more than just giving them food. I think that Isera is likely quite a remarkable person.

I have now eaten an excellent meal and settled in my room for the evening. I think that I will go to bed soon—I find myself very tired after today—so I will close for now.

It feels strange to be off the road, to be in a place that is “mine” and not have you with me. I love you. I miss you.

5 Firstfall

Bran wants to hold a ball to welcome me to Kirkwall. I suppose this is to be expected, given the Inquisition’s support when Starkhaven held it under siege, but I put my foot down. I’m here as a private citizen, not the Inquisitor.

I say that I put my foot down, but really there was a compromise, made reluctantly on my part—Bran is indefatigable when he is determined that protocol will be followed. There will be a small reception in a week or two, held at Viscount’s Keep, with as few invited guests as I can get away with, and a formal presentation solidifying what already exists: Varric’s gift of the estate. (The key to the harbour chains was not mentioned. I had brought it back to Varric, but he refused to take it. “Keep it,” he said. “It’s not like we don’t have others, and it’ll look nice hanging over your hat-rack.”)

Today I went out and explored the city a little. I’ve been here before, certainly, when working as a mercenary, but it has been some time, and of course there have been changes. There are still many signs of damage, and the new stone of the rebuilding gleams next to the old. It’s a curious effect, as if an old woman has put on a new suit of armour, but only in part.

Varric met me at Viscount’s Keep early in the morning and introduced me formally to Aveline Vallen. What an impressive person that woman is! She is tall and stern, just like you, and looks as if she could break me in half without any trouble at all, just like you. She was very businesslike and formal; I wondered what she would be like when she relaxed, or if she even does. Perhaps she has a softer side, as you do? Or perhaps not. I know that you will want to know more about her than that, but those were my first impressions.

I wandered by myself for most of the day, joining Varric at the Hanged Man in the evening. I don’t recall if you’ve ever been there? It was never one of my regular haunts when I visited the city as a mercenary, though I’d drunk there a few times. It really is a dump, but a warm and comfortable one, if you see what I mean. It was largely destroyed during Kirkwall’s troubles, but has been rebuilt—I think Varric funded the construction, and for all I know he’s the actual owner—so I suppose that it’s in better shape than it was, but it’s still not very impressive. And the ale is appalling. But it does draw a very diverse group of patrons from all walks of life, which is interesting. Varric still keeps rooms there, and does a good deal of work from them. He says that it’s far more comfortable than his office in the Keep, and gets him better information than the seneschal’s spies can.

I met Merrill. She is the oddest woman. She seemed distracted and unfocused the whole time I talked to her, just as she is in Tale of the Champion, but Varric says that she has been like a mabari with its teeth set in a steak in working to rebuild the alienage and protect the elves. Now that the Mage-Templar war is over things are not so dangerous, but the elves have always been scapegoats when things have gone wrong, and have continued to be so in Kirkwall, especially since so many have now gone to Solas. Merrill is the representative of their interests to Varric, and has been instrumental in helping the community find a voice with the authorities. Not something that a person who truly lacked sense could do!

Everyone ignores the fact that she is a blood mage. I asked her quietly if it caused her problems that others knew what she was, because of course Varric did not try to hide it in his Tale. And indeed, her arms and hands are covered in a web of tiny scars. “Well,” she said, “it made things interesting for a while. But I don’t use anyone else’s blood, and after there were a few fights started where no one was much hurt, well, not killed, anyway, and they could see that I wasn’t using their blood, most of them started to believe that I wasn’t a threat. Or at least that I wouldn’t use their blood for my own purposes. Some of the nobles are still suspicious, though. Why do they think their blood is special, do you suppose?”

Aveline joined us at the Hanged Man after she was off duty. She seemed marginally more relaxed in that environment, but she’s still very upright. She thanked me for the aid we sent to Kirkwall during Sebastian’s siege. She had something to say about his obsession with Anders, and his willingness to torch a whole city in an effort to find and punish him and his accomplices. “Maker knows where Anders went,” she said, “and none of us want to. But he certainly wasn’t in Kirkwall. And as for his ‘associates,’ Sebastian knew damn well where most of us were. It wasn’t us he was after, just anyone else who might have helped Anders, but most of those were long gone too, off to fight in the Mage-Templar wars elsewhere. That was when Kirkwall was trying to rebuild; there was little room for politics of that sort. His obsession with the city made no sense.” And then the conversation went on to something else. But later, after a couple of ales, she spoke of Sebastian again. “That man,” she said darkly, “has a stick of entitlement as big as a Chantry candle up his ass.” I just about fell off my chair.

I am back at my estate now—I am not ready to call it “home”—and preparing for bed. Isera has brought a hot drink, and there are books to entertain me, no doubt Varric’s doing. I shall read for a little and then try to sleep.

I miss you, my love.

6 Firstfall

I am spending today alone, for a change; I think I have had enough of people yesterday to do me for some time. And so now I will respond to the things you said in your letter.

I was still travelling with the scouts between Perendale and Hunter Fell when Satinalia fell, so we didn’t have the scope to do much. But we did manage a small celebration. Darcy was the youngest, so she was named Fool and commanded us all for the day, generally forcing us to do tasks we were not trained in. I was required to dig a latrine when we camped; I don’t think she suspected the extent of my previous experience with this duty!

She did draw the line with supper; it would have been far too hard on all of us if an unskilled person took on that task. Though truthfully, all the scouts are good cooks. But Gerard is the most talented, and he was assigned to prepare food that day. It seems that he had reserved some special ingredients just for the occasion, and so we had not only an excellent stew made with the hares they had taken, but also a kind of cake made with spices and dried fruits, and a small flask of brandy was shared. It was an excellent Satinalia altogether, despite the lack of masks, apart from how badly I missed you.

I shall certainly bring you a Satinalia gift when I return, and we shall exchange them in entirely the wrong season and laugh about it. I confess that I haven’t actually acquired your gift yet, because I haven’t found just the right thing—but perhaps Kirkwall will have exactly what I’m looking for.

It makes sense that you should start training apprentices again. If you decide to see about recruiting the twin in Perendale, the inn was the Six-Legged Dragon, and the girl’s name is Carlyle. I’m not entirely sure, given her skill at manipulating me, that she would not be better apprenticed to Josephine or Leliana, but I’m very certain that she would be staunch and determined in pursuing her goal of being a Seeker.

You said that you haven’t yet replied to your uncle. My love, I don’t think you need to say much to him if you wish to reply; I think he would be pleased with a simple report that you are well and that your rebuilding of the Seekers is progressing. If you want to use words to find a way to him, it only needs to be a footpath that allows you to meet and shake hands occasionally; you don’t need to construct the Imperial Highway and send monthly delegations.

I miss you terribly. I wish I could build a footpath that would bring you to me, right now. How I wish I didn’t need to do this. But thank the Maker that you can find understanding for me in your heart. Your blessing on what I’m doing, of the fact that I need to do it, is what keeps me strong. Sometimes I can’t believe how lucky I’ve been to find your love, and I hope that I never do anything that makes you doubt my love for you. Sometimes I think the luck is all one-sided, and that you deserve far better than a foolish lover who thinks it’s all right to leave you to pursue her own interests. _[More writing, heavily crossed out and indecipherable]_

I am becoming maudlin, and working myself into despair. I think I shall put this letter down and take a nap; after all the activities of the last days I find myself wanting to rest.

10 Firstfall

I slept for three days after my last note to you. Well, I didn’t sleep for all of that time, or even most of it, but I took to my bed and rested. I hadn’t realized how much the travelling took out of me until I stopped.

Isera was thoroughly alarmed, and asked if I needed a healer, but I told her not to worry, that it was just the fatigue of travel, mixed with laziness. I forced myself to get up and eat my meals, as much to prove to her that I was capable of it as for any other reason. I have been seized by inertia, now that I do not need to move. I find it so easy to lie abed whether it’s day or night, drifting between sleep and wakefulness. I’m sure this will pass.

I know you worry about my nightmares. I still have them, but in some ways they’ve become more strange and less disturbing. Sometimes they’re almost pleasant, so perhaps they should not be called nightmares at all. The sudden need to rest may be evidence that I still am not getting enough sleep, but for the most part I seem to be getting used to it. I suppose that one can adjust to anything, given time.

I’m already receiving mail, mostly invitations, and I suppose that I will have to get up properly and respond to it. Really I’d rather sleep, or perhaps go drinking at the Hanged Man with Varric.

You asked about the estate, and whether it was comfortable. Yes, it is; Varric never spent much time in my quarters in Skyhold, but he’d been there more than once, and evidently had taken note of my tastes. The furniture isn’t fashionable but it’s solid and comfortable. There’s a well-appointed office and an excellent supply of books. The walls are covered in tapestries and paintings. I don’t know if they are Varric’s choices, or belonged to the original owner, a noble whose entire family died during the uprising. They are conservative in nature but also quite beautiful and create a very “homey” effect. On the whole, I like the estate very much, and I think you would too.

Apparently some distant relatives laid a claim to the property, but Varric bought them off at a good price. He and Bran wrote a law—supported by the local nobility, amazingly, Bran truly is good at his job despite being so very annoying—that potential legatees who were non-resident and beyond a certain distance of relationship and not named directly in a will must do one of two things. They may sell the property to the city at the property’s current value, but if they do not, they must reside in Kirkwall themselves for at least a year during a period of three years following the city’s destruction. The reasoning was that the city needed people, not empty, decaying homes that nobles far away refused to put coin into while holding on to in the hope that the rebuilding work of others would provide a good return on their investment in the long run. And of course, with the city in the state it was, the value of the property was low. In the end most of those with distant claims sold their properties to the city, which in turn made them available to locals at cost, with limitations on how much any one person could buy. This meant that people were able to acquire properties which were normally beyond their resources, and it’s resulted in a really interesting shake-up of the local gentry, with merchants and commoners joining the nobles in High Town. The nobles are not entirely happy with the results, but the commoners certainly are, and Varric has a great deal of popular support.

Anyway, back to the estate. It's not large as the estates of nobles go, but it’s well laid out and will accommodate a few guests. Even the servants’ quarters are well designed, being warm and comfortable. It’s relatively modest and lacks the expansive rooms some estates keep for entertaining, but as you know that suits me very well. I don’t foresee the need to entertain more than friends, now that I’m not required to. And the estate already feels too large, without you here to share it.

I wish that you were here to see it. I would show you around and then take you to the bedroom and introduce you to the bed, which is large and comfortable and covered in a riot of quilts and pillows, and push you down on it and kiss you senseless. And then—but no, I will not think of that now, it makes me miss you too much.

15 Firstfall

The reception Bran insisted on has happened, and wasn’t as bad as it could have been. Varric made sure that some of his friends were there—Aveline and Merrill, for example—to leaven the onslaught of nobility. And he made sure that even though some nobles that I would prefer not to have been there could not be omitted from the event, there were also some who were decent sorts, and interesting to talk to. And Bran himself, once protocols were satisfied, put himself out to entertain the ones who were not so interesting; at least he’s willing to suffer the consequences of his thrice-damned obsession with political etiquette. So it wasn’t too hard to get through.

I mentioned your work with the Seekers to Aveline, and she was very interested. She has, of course, toiled tirelessly in Kirkwall to build a Guard that serves all residents, in a time that put a great deal of pressure on her to make “easy” choices. She holds great respect for you and your work, and said that she would like to meet you, should you travel to Kirkwall in the future.

I also spoke at some length with Merrill again. She seems very vague and naive, but she’s actually quite perceptive. “Have you been sleeping?” she asked. “You don’t look like you’ve been sleeping.” I admitted that I both had, and had not, and that my sleep was disturbed by dreams. “You need to be careful with that,” she said, very seriously. And then someone interrupted us, so I never found out quite what I was supposed to be careful of. Or, more to the point, how. It’s not as if I control my dreams! I really must ask her what she meant, but I keep forgetting to do so.

At any rate, I’m out of bed and up and about now, so only the normal amount of dreaming. My intention is to explore Kirkwall thoroughly, to see how a city rebuilds itself, and spend more time with Varric and his friends.

I went down to the docks today for a while. Sitting and watching the sea and the ships and the bustle is interesting. I’d liked sitting on Cress’s ship watching the sea and the sailors and the way waves move over the water—it seems so busy but not quite real. And yet the sea is more real than the sailors. It’s restful.

(I reread that and it didn’t seem to quite make sense. What I mean is that the sea is always there and unchanging; the people and ships come and go, so they’re not as solid, if that’s the word I want. I’m not sure it is.)

I finally came to myself and realized that I’d sat for far too long in rain and sleet that was getting very close to being snow, and gotten thoroughly cold and wet—winter is perhaps not the best time to be a layabout and watch others work. So I went back to my estate. I’m warm now, and full of a good dinner. I shall close this letter and send it off. I am already beginning to feel restless, but I’m not sure where I want to go next, so I shall be here for a while longer, and your next letter, if sent through Varric, should still find me here.

I miss you, my love. You are the sea in my mind, my heart, my life.

Trev

* * *

_**Letter from Seeker Pentaghast to Inquisitor Trevelyan**_

4 Firstfall

Beloved,

You have no idea how happy I was to receive your message and to hear that you are safe at Kirkwall. I am sorry that your voyage was so rough. I am not a bad sailor, having spent a great deal of time travelling, but from your description it sounds as if we would have been partners in misery. And truly there is nothing more frustrating than a storm that makes one seasick and impedes progress at the same time, prolonging the horror of it.

I begin to wonder if there is anyone in Thedas that Admiral Isabela does not “know.” Ugh, that was not called for. The woman upsets me even when she is not near. I will try to forget my bad temper.

Give Varric my regards. I was going to say, tell him that I almost miss his prodding, but I do not want to inflate his ego to such a degree.

There is not a great deal to report from Vérité. The work progresses well. We are shut in by winter storms now, so no news from outside.

As is usual in this season, the closeness produces both good and bad. A number of romances have begun, but also a number of enemies have been made—sometimes with the same cause for both. There have been a few broken heads, but I have made it clear that such feuds may not be borne to their logical conclusions without consequences. I am the final authority in Vérité, and I will not tolerate violence and chaos. Why are so few capable of self-discipline?

Emery suggests that the tavern be closed for a week every time there is a brawl, and I am seriously considering it. I know that Shenker tries to shut things down quickly, but this would also give a miscreant’s companions reason to calm him instead of encouraging him. (It seems usually to be a him, though certainly not always, and our most spectacular brawl so far was instituted by a woman who is a labourer and laid about her with a bench; she emerged from it entirely unscathed, which seems unjust.) Shenker and her workers are paid wages, so to shut the tavern would do them no great harm. I will speak to her about it and see what she thinks.

Our armoury is in excellent state now. Just before the roads closed completely a master smith arrived, one who used to work for the Seekers and heard we were rebuilding. I immediately hired him, knowing his reputation. Hanser brought with him an apprentice and reliable connections to difficult-to-obtain materials. Durelion’s nose was bent out of joint for a time, as she was used to having things her own way, and I thought she might leave, but in the end she acknowledged that Hanser had more expertise, particularly in some specialized areas, and that it would be a boon to her to work under him. So we are well set in that area with a master, a highly qualified journeywoman, and an apprentice.

18 Firstfall

And now I have just received your second letter—I had not expected word from you so soon! I shall try to finish this tonight so that I can send my reply tomorrow.

Your estate sounds charming, and I look forward to seeing it. Varric’s suggestion of maintaining a housekeeper is excellent; a vacant house invites trouble, especially when it is furnished. Perhaps, when you are not in residence, it might be used for friends of ours who are travelling on business? It is yours to do with as you like, of course, and I do not wish to interfere with your plans.

I took your advice and have sent the letter to my uncle. It is not long, but it is a letter. It was the best I could do.

It must be strange to meet Varric’s friends, those he wrote about. I suppose that we are characters in his stories too, now, but still they do not seem quite real to me. I cannot imagine what I would say to Aveline if I was to meet her. I think that the image of the Guard-Captain in the Tale of the Champion and the Guard-Captain in Swords and Shields would get mixed together with the real woman and leave me tongue-tied.

I understand Aveline, at least in principle, but I have never known quite what to make of Merrill. I think it would be interesting to talk to her, though. I would ask her what she meant when she spoke to you about your dreams, though from everything I have heard of her I am not sure I would understand her answers.

_[Two paragraphs, scribbled out and indecipherable.]_

I worry about you, beloved. I know that you are safe in Kirkwall, but you say you are still not sleeping well, that you still dream. I worry about what Merrill said to you. I worry that you are not eating enough. I worry that you sit outside on the docks in bad weather beyond all sense, until you are half-frozen. I know that you will tell me I am foolish, that you are a grown woman who has looked after herself for years. I know all this very well. I do not even quite understand why I am worried, and so I tell myself that I am foolish, as you will do. But I do not seem to be able to help it. I wish that I could be with you, to see you and put my hands on you and feel you real and solid beneath my palms.

And now I have another fear. I re-read what I wrote above and thought, “She will not speak of these things again, if I tell her that I worry.” I thought of crossing it all out, but I do not want to lie or hide my thoughts from you. Please do not hide yours from me—I think I would worry more if you did not mention these things.

Plans for First Day are underway here at Vérité. I am looking forward to it and to the turning of the year, but I think that I will spend much of the day alone and think of you and what you mean to me. And that is everything, my love.

Please, for my sake, take care of yourself.

All my love,

Cassandra

* * *

 _Life at Vérité is so dull_ , Cassandra thought. Would Trev even care to read about common tavern brawls when she was meeting the people from Varric’s stories? There was so little she could say that was _interesting_. A little information about the progress of building, a few anecdotes, none exciting, and responding to Trev’s adventures.

And worrying. She should not _always_ write about her fears for her lover. She must not. If she was the one travelling, she would soon grow tired of such questions, such concerns, if there was nothing else of note. And after her injury Trev was likely to be particularly sensitive to questions about her ability to look after herself. She must be careful.

She could add a little about her letter to Vestalus, but she could no more find the words to do so than she could find the words to put in the letter to her uncle in the first place. She had not wanted to write. She had nothing to say. He would not be interested.

He had nothing to say, but said it anyway. He had written only about small things, a dinner with someone she knew, an amusing incident here and there, a few political or scholarly challenges. They should not have been so interesting to her, they were nothing. She wrote back a little about the building, about her plans for the Seekers. It was like writing a business letter, a report, and equally as interesting.

And now she had a reply. More of the same. Was this to be their relationship now, exchanging letters about nothing?

He had described a problem that faced him, a disagreement between officials that he must decide. The solution seemed clear to her. Perhaps she would offer her opinion about it; if she offended him by doing so, well, that would solve the problem of their correspondence. She could have asked Trev what she thought about this idea, if she were here. But Trev was not here, and there was no point in asking for her thoughts by letter when it took so long for messages to be exchanged. No, she would offer her opinion and damn the consequences.

_I wish you were here, my love. I wish that you were here to wake beside me on First Day, to face the world together. Be safe. Be strong. Come back to me._


	13. And a lively time was had by all

_**Letter from Inquisitor Trevelyan to Seeker Pentaghast** _

9 Haring

Dearest Cassandra,

I received your letter and there is so much to say in response. Let me start with the simple things first.

Closing the tavern? Impossible! You must let me know if you actually did this, or if the threat was enough, or if there were riots in response to your severe and autocratic rule. (I am teasing, of course. I think that this would probably be a very clever tactic, and I’m curious to know how it played out.)

Ah, Isabela still gets under your skin, doesn’t she? Varric says that she and Hawke sail to Kirkwall from time to time, and they‘re due for a visit, so perhaps I shall meet them while I’m here. But do not fear, I have told Varric he must protect me from Isabela’s wiles. ("Should I wear extra knives in self-defence?” I asked. He just snorted and said, “That’s more likely to encourage her.”)

I think that the idea of letting our travelling friends use the estate is an excellent one. I shall sort out the details of how it could work with Varric, and then send word to those who might make use of it.

Varric is fussing over me almost as much as you, by the way. He insists we play cards every few days with his friends, and we dine together often, with or without others. I’m not sure if this is for my benefit or his—clearly he is as happy to escape his responsibilities as I am mine.

You said that speaking with Aveline would likely leave you tongue-tied. Given her opinions of the Seeker and Hero of Orlais, I think it quite likely that this would be a mutual effect, and the two of you would be trapped in silence until some hero came by to actually force a conversation. I shall endeavour to do my best if I am the hero; but I don’t promise not to bang your heads together so that you lose your shyness in mutual outrage at me. I’m certain it would be worth it, if only to hear the sounds you both make when irritated.

Having got all that out of the way: please, don’t worry for me. I am fine. I’m eating and sleeping enough. The dreams are disruptive but I still get enough sleep to manage. I’m not keeping anything from you, and will never do so. But I won’t call you foolish, because you are not; the problem is only that you are not here with me, to see for yourself that all is well.

You see, for so many years I’ve been constrained by my responsibilities, had to plan everything I did, every moment, had to think before I spoke. It was necessary, but it set chains on me. Now I can relax in ways that I’ve never done since you’ve known me. I no longer must think always of what must be done and how to do it; I can let my thoughts wander. If this makes me distractible and careless, so that I sit out in bad weather or lose track of time, it does me no harm, and if you were here you would know it.

I wish you were here, my love. You could sit on the dock with me, and grumble at the weather, and protest that I am foolish in choosing to stay out in it, and insist that I wrap myself in my cloak. Or put an arm around me so that we were both wrapped in your cloak. And then when we were back at the estate and well fed, you could do your utmost to warm me up.

Maker, I miss you.

5 Haring

We have had an unexpected surprise! Last night I joined Varric for a regular night of cards at the Hanged Man, and who should be there but Hawke and Isabela? They sailed into Kirkwall late in the afternoon, having decided to celebrate First Day with Varric, and will sail off again once it’s over. It made for a much livelier evening than usual, and Isabela won at cards. Varric says she does it by cheating, and he always allows her to get away with it the first night back in port, as a kind of welcoming gift.

It was amusing to see them all reunited. Merrill was delighted, kissing both of them enthusiastically, and asking for tales of where they had been. Varric received his share of kisses as well, of course, and a full body hug from Isabela that he took complete advantage of. Aveline attempted to refrain from the kissing, though she was willing to hug, but Isabela grabbed her firmly and planted a large, sloppy kiss on her lips. The Guard Captain turned a shade of red that does not truly complement her hair and called her a whore, and Isabela laughed and said, ”That’s my girl!” It had the feeling of a ritual that both players know their parts to, and I think Aveline was actually as pleased as Merrill and Varric to see them.

And because I am sure that you will want to know but will not ask: no, I did not participate in the kissing, though I did accept a hug. Isabela had spotted me before Hawke did, and was heading in my direction, and I held up my hand and told her that there was only one person that I would kiss in such a familiar way. “Oh, what a shame,” she said sympathetically, but she satisfied herself with kissing my cheek. She does put a great deal into a hug, I must say. Hawke, having seen our whole encounter, also kissed me on the cheek, but was considerably more restrained in her embrace.

The card game went on for much longer than usual, broken by tales and other interruptions, so I am late coming to bed. As I was still wide awake when I came back to my estate I decided to write this instalment of my letter to you; but the excitement of the evening is finally beginning to fade, and I’ll go to bed soon, hopefully to sleep.

It will be interesting to see what happens while Isabela and Hawke are in Kirkwall; Varric was certainly happy to see them, but there was a curious sort of resignation to his manner as well.

Seeing them together made me miss you worse than ever. Sleep well, my love, and I shall endeavour to do the same.

[UNDATED]

Last night we met again at the Hanged Man not for cards only tales and laughter. By one hour past midnight Varric and Merrill and Aveline had gone home because they have duties in the morning but I stayed and matched drink for drink with Hawke and Isabela. This may have been unwise. Do you know what kind of view there is from rooftops in the moonlight? I have certainly been on a roof at night, but I had never travelled from place to place at that height but the buildings are so close. We carried flasks with us and stopped from time to time to drink and talk and Hawke and Isabela lay in each others arms the way I want to do with you now. The moon lay down rivers of light and monuments of shadow and there were pathways that could have led anywhere and we took them. Bran is an annoying man and I don’t feel sorry at all.

I am writing this early in the morning back in my quarters and it may be that I am a little drunk still. I think that I will drink some water and eat the breakfast Isera has just brought and go to bed and dream of pathways pathways pathways

...

I am writing this addendum later the same day. Maker, I must remember never again to try to match Isabela and Hawke when they are drinking, I do not have the capacity. I am going back to bed and may never get up again.

16 Haring

I didn’t go out at all the rest of the day I wrote the above, or that evening, and kept almost entirely to my bed. I won’t bore you with the unpleasant details. I seriously considered burning this page and copying it clean without the last entry, but no, I promised that I would not hide things from you, so I shall leave it as it is.

I know that you’ll be frowning at me now, your look a chastisement if I could but see it. But Isera, while perfectly polite, turns out to be fully capable of radiating this same sort of disapproval toward her employer, so you do not have to do it, and really, she was entirely justified, considering the extra work my incapacity generated. I am thoroughly embarrassed.

I spent today quietly as well. This evening I ventured out to the tavern, though I made sure to limit my consumption to one ale nursed throughout the evening. Isabela and Hawke showed no effects from their dissolute behaviour, annoyingly; I know that I still do, and Varric had a smirk when he saw me that I would have liked to have wiped from his face if his amusement was not so well deserved.

Midway through the evening Bran burst into the Hanged Man, looking like an exceedingly well-dressed stormcloud, and made his way directly to our table, where he proceeded to accuse Hawke and Isabela of some sort of violation two nights ago. Isabela gave him a lazy smile and said, “Why, Bran, we are not the only ne’er-do-wells in Kirkwall, and your reactions make you such a good target for them.” Which incensed him even more, of course.

“But somehow nothing seems to happen to me except when you are here,” he snarled. “Everyone knows what sort you are. Everyone knows that you poke, you prod, you do everything in your power to provoke me and call it humour! I have had enough of your childishness! I will have you arrested and charged and seize your ship! I will—”

Much of what passed that night is vague and dreamlike, and there are things I don’t remember at all. I actually could not remember why Bran might have been angry. But it didn’t seem fair that they should take all the blame, and he was beginning to threaten them seriously, and Isabela had begun to play with her knives. “Hawke and Isabela and I spent the entire night together, Bran,” I said, “drinking and telling tales.” Which was all quite true, as far as it went. It stopped him dead in mid-tirade, and he stared at me for a few seconds.

“I would have thought better of you, Inquisitor,” said Bran furiously then, and stomped off with his guard. I suppose he thought that it was one thing to imprison Hawke and Isabela, and another to do so to me.

The two of them were looking at me in delight, Varric and Aveline looked resigned, and Merrill looked puzzled. “Why would he be so upset?” she said generally. “I thought that it was very pretty.”

I must have looked as nonplussed as Merrill, for Isabela said, “Have you forgotten what we did, sweet thing? But it was so memorable!”

And so it was that I discovered that we had somehow gotten onto Bran’s balcony in Viscount’s Keep and painted the entire balcony and the facade behind it a particularly virulent and intense shade of pink. I am wondering if Isabela stole some supplies from Dagna when she was in Skyhold, and held them in reserve against just such a need.

I should add that I find that my general, well-deserved sense of embarrassment is perhaps not as strong as it should be with regard to this particular incident.

I think that I shall send this letter by raven before I change my mind about what to include. I love you, my heart. Write soon and tell me that you forgive me for my foolishness.

Trev

* * *

_**Letter from Seeker Pentaghast to Inquisitor Trevelyan** _

15 Haring

Beloved,

I am finding Vérité very lonely without you here. It is not like Skyhold, where I was not in charge and subject to the limitations of the hierarchy of command. Emery is a good sort, and I would call us friends, but she is as busy as I am, perhaps more so.

Vérité is also much smaller than Skyhold, and more isolated, and there are far fewer people. We all know each other, and in winter we are closed in all tight together, and there is nothing new, only each day the same thing and the same people, over and over. It will be good to finally celebrate First Day, and let out some of the tensions that have been growing, and know that the days are lengthening again. We are organizing a feast, of course, but also some games and contests, and there will be prizes.

Oh my love, how I miss you. I want to be with you for First Day, I want to lock the door to our rooms and refuse to open them. ~~I want~~ [ _more, scribbled out_ ] Let others celebrate with wine and spirits and a fine dinner together. I only want to spend the time with you. I read your letters over and over till they are worn and breaking, and it is not enough. I want your scent, your skin, the warmth of your smile. ~~I want~~ I miss you, I miss you, I miss you.

I should not put this upon you. I am out of sorts, but I am well, and will be well, and the work progresses well. I know that this rebuilding is important to peace in Thedas, that what I am doing will make a difference, that it is necessary that I hold myself to it.

I said that there is nothing new; that is not quite true. The wild goats in these mountains are aggressive and bold—perhaps they learned it from the dragons of old—and one night some of them got into a storage building and made quite a mess of the supplies therein, eating and trampling a great deal. We still have plenty of foodstuffs to last through the winter, but there is less variety, and we will be eating more turnips than apples.

On the other hand, the turnips will be augmented by more meat than expected. Even a mason can be a good hunter when her ire is up, it seems, and although most fell to more traditional weapons, at least one goat was killed by a well-thrown brick.

Someone is calling for my attention; I shall set this aside for now.

24 Haring

I received your letter just now, far sooner than expected, and so I will reply as quickly as I may. Of course you are forgiven, my love. I cannot say exactly that I approve of your painting the senechal’s balcony pink, but I have met Bran, and I do at least understand the inclination.

As for the rest—please, my love, if you must take to the roofs, do it sober.

One more thing, and then I will let it go. I know that you loved pranking people with Sera, but for all her wildness and carelessness, Sera had some sensible purpose. [ _Long paragraph, scribbled out and indecipherable_ ] Perhaps I am wrong, but I do not think that Hawke and Isabela are the same in this. Please take care.

You say that I should not worry for you, that all is well. I will accept your assertions as the truth; I must. But it will not stop me from worrying, my love, for you are not within my reach to see for myself. It is foolish, I know, and I will try not to let it ride me.

I would like to sit on a roof with you, though, with a blanket or two and a bottle of wine, and watch the moon and the stars, and say all the things that I have been saving up. But probably I would not be able to find the right words if I did. So I would be silent, and would have to pull your hand against my heart and let it speak for me.

As to other things you said in your letter:

Yes, we did close the tavern for one week—but only once, after making sure to warn every soul in Vérité that it would happen if there was a brawl. It has not been necessary to do it a second time.

I am glad that you are enjoying yourself with Varric and his friends. I think that you have missed your circle of companions, have you not? Skyhold was very different when everyone was there and working together; it became a smaller, sadder place with them gone, and I know you rattled around in it too loosely to be comfortable.

 ~~Isabela does not get under my skin. It is only that she~~ ~~I just~~ [ _indecipherable_ ] Yes, Isabela does get under my skin. I dislike her teasing. ~~She does not~~ ~~When she is~~ ~~I can’t~~ I do not know what to say about that woman. Perhaps I should say nothing.

[ _Three full paragraphs, scratched out and indecipherable_.]

I am jealous, that is the truth of it. Not because I think that you would sleep with her, but because she is there with you and I am not. And because she is so easy and careless with her affections. And despite that she is beautiful and graceful, and makes me feel like a gawking, awkward child who no one could possibly want. And she is wasteful with it, she behaves as if affection—love—is not important. I suppose that after all she has been through with Hawke she understands how fragile such things are, but she does not show it. Her actions devalue honest love. Or so it seems to me, and that makes me angry. And as you have said in the past, she is charming despite it all, and that makes me even angrier.

When I think of her… ugh. I will try to do better.

It is only a little over a week now until First Day; the nights are long but soon they will shorten. I will send this letter now by raven, so that you will have it before the day of celebration comes. It carries all my love with it. I wish I knew how to tell you what you mean to me.

Be safe, my love.

Cassandra

* * *

_There is no reason to be jealous of Isabela. I have no doubt of Trev’s faithfulness, her honesty. It is ridiculous. I should not have admitted my jealousy. It is foolish._

_It is not foolish. She is seductive, even if she fails to seduce. And she and Hawke lead Trev into dissolute behaviour, into foolishness. Into doing things that make me feel as if I do not know her._

There was a warmth in how Trev wrote of the pirate that set Cassandra’s teeth on edge. She hated the woman for it. She should not. It was embarrassing. She was not the guardian of Trev’s virtue. She shut her eyes and rested her forehead on one hand. _I ache for you, my love. I want you. I am frightened for you. Please come home as soon as you can._

* * *

_**Letter from Inquisitor Trevelyan to Seeker Pentaghast** _

22 Haring

Dearest Cassandra,

I think that I shall move on from Kirkwall after First Day, as I have attracted Varric’s ire. Not an easy thing to do, you might think. And in my defence, it was certainly not intentional.

It was not the incident with Bran; that simply made him laugh. It was something much simpler and more straightforward that turned out not to be so.

But I must back up and explain what led up to this.

I have discovered that it’s easier for me to sleep during the day than at night. Or at least, if my sleep is disturbed by dreams to the same degree, I at least feel more rested afterwards. I feel strangely alert at night. I feel—ah, I do not know how to explain it. The darkness changes everything: the contrasts of shadow and moonlight when the moon is strong, the subtleties of shadows and starlight when it is not. It’s like a dream but much simpler. It can be difficult to see where you’re going, and yet my path always seems so clear. It’s unreal, so much is hidden compared to daylight, and yet it seems so real to me, so simple. ~~Black and white and light and dark and falling into them is~~ It’s a very good thing that I did not discover this years ago, or I would likely have become a thief by trade! Isabela laughed when I told her this and said, “Sweet thing, you still can,” but I don’t think that I want to change my life to quite that extent. And I’m almost certain that she was not serious. But I like the way things look at night. I spent some time sitting on the docks last night looking at the little knife that I bought in Cumberland, the one that matches yours, and how the colour is still there even though it is not, and thinking of your eyes.

This is all to explain why I had taken to roaming the streets at night with Hawke and Isabela. I don’t think they see the night the same way I do, but they like it, and they like exploring the city after most citizens are well abed, and getting into trouble. Those who are still out are those who have work that cannot be done by day, or who have work that requires secrecy. There are still gangs and criminals in Kirkwall, because though things have improved there is still much poverty. The Carta still works here, and the doglords have their people, and others as well. Aveline is not entirely happy that Hawke and Isabela wander around at night every time they visit, but acknowledges that the Guard cannot be everywhere. And for the most part, says Hawke, when they get into trouble it’s with those that the Guard would want to give trouble to anyway, and so she can’t be too angry with them. We do keep to the streets, mostly, and I have not allowed myself to drink as much as I did on that first night, because I think that was not altogether wise. And anyway, most of the troublemakers are on the streets, not the rooftops. Sometimes Merrill comes with us. She has a look of vulnerability that is very useful if you want to attract ne’er-do-wells.

I know that you are saying, “But this is unlike you.” I suppose it is. Even Hawke remarked on it, though not to my face. I overheard her saying something about it to Isabela. “The Inquisitor has changed,” she said. “I would never have believed that she would be a part of this, she always seemed like such a person of daylight.” And Isabela laughed and said, “Let her be. Some demons are better fought at night.” I have no idea what she thinks is going on with me, as demons, real or metaphorical, do not come into this. I am simply more wide awake and enjoy the city streets at night (and, to be honest, a little mayhem). Anyway, they said nothing to me directly, and seem glad of my company.

I don’t think I’ve really changed, it’s as I said in my last letter: I’m finding ways to relax and learn myself again when I do not hold responsibility for the world’s survival. I certainly don’t expect to spend all my future roaming at night, my love! I would have far better things to do in the dark hours if you were here.

But I must explain what happened. We had gone out as usual, but hadn’t encountered much trouble, and it was perhaps three hours past midnight, when even most of those with illicit business had gone home to sleep. And then we came on a group of men who were mishandling some workers from the alienage, those who collect nightsoil and other waste, taunting them and treating them roughly, and they had been smeared liberally with the material that they had collected.

Aveline said severely that the whole thing could have been de-escalated, but I am not so sure. And in any case, it is done now, and I’m not particularly sorry. I know you have been concerned about my fighting skills, but here in Kirkwall I am still better than most, and have no difficulty in looking after myself. We were outnumbered, but not badly, and were more than able to hold our own, and the gang of abusers was given a taste of their own treatment. And no one was actually killed, and I don’t think they would have been even if someone had not called the Guard. Though the whole thing was certainly bloody, and there are some who will be sporting new scars. (I myself came off lightly in that regard, you will likely not even notice.)

The only problem with the whole thing was that the miscreants turned out to be the offspring of a set of nobles of particular pride and arrogance who are certain that their children can do no wrong. “Youthful exuberance” is a phrase that was used more than once. Maker, what those words are used to excuse. Aveline threw us all in gaol, though at least with the sense to separate the factions, and gave us an energetic lecture on hard-headed and half-assed stupidity.

But in the morning, after being released upon the posting of a bond, we had to deal with Varric, and he is not at all pleased with any of us. It seems that the nobles whose offspring were involved have been particularly difficult to work with, and this has caused him more problems. “Look,” he said, “those assholes needed to be taught a lesson, fair enough. But you got caught, and that makes it political. And I have enough shit to deal with without you all making it worse. Why in the name of Andraste’s knickers didn’t you run when the Guard came?” And then he proceeded to explain, in great detail, just how this was going to mess up a number of his initiatives.

I’m not sure why we didn’t run; I suppose Hawke and Isabela never do, and take being arrested by the Guard as part of the fun. And certainly with their example I never thought to flee. I don’t mean that as an excuse. I am truly sorry for giving Varric more worries, even if I can’t be sorry for the rest of it.

30 Haring

I received your letter, my love, and it is such a joy. It is the evening before First Day now, and I am writing this from my estate. There will be much celebrating tomorrow, so I decided to stay quietly at home tonight and think only of you.

Isabela amuses me, my love, and I like her, but nothing more. If I’d met her years ago when I was younger and had no attachments, I might well have fallen carelessly into her bed for a night or two, but now I look at her and feel no attraction. Now all I can think of are the planes of your face catching the light, the line of your cheekbones, the way your eyes crinkle at the corners when you are happy. And your smile, oh Maker, when you smile at me it is all I can see. Your smile is something so rare and precious. I love the shape of you, the feel of hard muscle and the places where you are soft and private. I love the seriousness with which you speak, I love the crease between your eyebrows, I love your staunch honesty, your faithfulness, the way you care. I love you so much.

Never fear for me with Isabela, my love. When I look at other women all I can ever see is you.

I’m sorry that you are lonely at Vérité. I think of it and I feel guilty, that my foolishness leaves you so. There were so many pathways to choose there, but none of them were mine, and so they all ended in pain. Here, here there are even more pathways, I see them everywhere. Kirkwall is only one starting place. I can’t see how they will end. I don’t know which is mine, but I must look for it.

And now I look at this and think, but when I speak of my guilt she will feel guilty too—you see, I know you too well—and think that she should not have spoken of it. Do not think that. Do not hide what you feel from me. We lay things on those we love because we love; it is inescapable. I know that you freely set me loose to go, with no blame, and do not mean to use guilt to bring me home to you. You can tell me that you miss me without meaning to use it against me, and I can do the same.

And I do miss you, and will say it as clearly as I can. First Day is for friends and family, and though I have friends here they are not my family, they are not you. I miss you so much that it makes me ache, quite literally, and not just in the places where the heroes in your romantic tales ache. I want nothing else, can care for nothing else, I feel desperate with need for you. I almost feel that I hate all who are with those they love at this time, and everyone else besides. A good part of me wants to ignore tomorrow altogether, to lock myself into my rooms and dispense with everything and everyone. But I expect that I shall go out with Varric and the others. Perhaps it will help to break this grim and angry mood.

Now, on to lighter things. I wish I had been there to see the battle with the goats. As it is, I can only imagine it. Did you take part? Were you an effective general?

Please, tell me more of your everyday life at Vérité. I want to make pictures in my mind of you there, to carry them with me. You are my home, and I want the sense of that, of you, as solid and real as I can make it, to hold and always return to.

I think that Varric may have forgiven me for the louts we routed. He says that when he investigated, it turned out that this gang and others have been harassing the night workers regularly—they hadn’t complained because they’re elves, and thought no one would care. Now he has taken steps with Aveline to make it clear that such things will not be tolerated, and asked Merrill to notify the alienage of his policy. So that’s something good to come of that mess, at least.

[UNDATED]

I am writing this in great haste as it will only be a few minutes till we sail. Isabela is impatient. We will be sailing east and then north. I’m not sure of the route but we will eventually be in Antiva City so a letter through Josephine will reach me there. I think that I have all my belongings. Varric refused to come to the docks so Merrill brought them. Varric has taken back the key. Or Aveline has and very rudely but she will give it to him. And this letter as well. I hope that he is not so angry that he will not send it. I love you.

Trev

* * *

**_Letter from Seeker Pentaghast to Viscount Tethras_ **

6 Wintermarch

Varric,

What is going on? The last letter I received from the Inquisitor had a closing that made no sense. It seemed to say she was leaving Kirkwall with Isabela and Hawke.

Cassandra Pentaghast

* * *

_**Letter from Viscount Tethras to Seeker Pentaghast** _

10 Wintermarch

Well, Seeker, your Inquisitor let it all rip on First Day and made quite a mess. I’ll be cleaning up after her for some time. I would have sent a letter with the one I forwarded from her but at the time I was a little too angry to bother. Now I think I’ve calmed down enough to find some humour in it and tell you the tale.

The long and the short of it is that she got blind drunk and dropped the harbour chains with that damn key I gave her. And it turns out that they’re easier to drop than to raise again if you don’t drop them just right in the first place.

I don’t know all the details. We got together in the early afternoon and started celebrating. There was a big formal dinner that Bran organized in the evening that I couldn’t get out of, so I left them to it. Merrill was the only one who was there the whole time and it’s hard to follow her sometimes when she explains things. But she said that they all got shit-faced—I’m not sure if they ever actually bothered to eat anything to settle the booze—and Isabela decided that they should sail first thing the next morning, she’d had enough of being in port. I can’t imagine what it’s like to try to sail drunk or hungover through a narrow channel like ours, but she’s the sailor, not me. So there was a lot of maudlin leave-taking and pledges of eternal friendship and suchlike. Over and over and over again, as far as I can tell.

They were up and drinking all night, or Hawke and the Inquisitor were, according to Merrill; I think Isabela may have stopped sooner, because of planning to sail. She does have some sense about some things. She had sent a messenger to her first mate, and he had gotten all the crew together by early morning, not without considerable grumbling. But they had also gotten into Viscount’s Keep during the night and had stolen the leftover food from the big dinner and a good deal of fine wine and spirits besides, though we didn’t figure that out until later, so Isabela used the promise of another celebration as a bribe to sweeten them.

The Inquisitor had been carrying the key around all night, I’m not sure quite why. Merrill said she went to her estate to get it and would bring it out and make a speech about opening pathways and always finding a way home, but it didn’t make much sense.

Anyway, the sailors were back at the ship in the early light of dawn, because for all their ability to carouse they are a well-disciplined bunch or they don’t last with their captain. It wasn’t long before they were ready to go; Isabela always keeps her ship in readiness to sail on a moment’s notice, we won’t enquire too deeply into exactly why. So off they sailed, with Merrill and Trevelyan waving from the dock. And then the Inquisitor said as if she had only just thought of it, “I should be with them!” And knocked someone off their horse and rode to one of the Twins and shoved in her key and dropped the chains. No one was with her then to see what she did, but the results were pretty fucking clear. I wish I’d never showed the damn things to her.

She rode back to the docks and eventually Isabela sailed back to her berth, since it was obvious that she couldn’t go where she wanted to. And Trevelyan was waiting for her. Isabela was pretty pissed, but also pretty impressed, and after letting the Inquisitor have an earful she took her on board.

By that time Aveline and the Guard were at the docks, having heard what was going on. She told me she had very seriously considered arresting Trevelyan, but Isabela told her to back off and she decided that on balance she’d be better off with the Inquisitor out of the city rather than in it, even as much as she wanted to see her in a gaol cell at that particular moment. It was lucky that the noble from whom the Inquisitor had stolen the horse hadn’t come back with them, or she might have had no choice.

Trevelyan hadn’t bothered to pack, of course, just boarded the ship with what she was wearing. But the delay in getting the chains up again, which was longer than it might have been because no one in the city was quite sober and they hadn’t been set the way they should have been, meant that someone could go to her estate and collect her things, and Isabela had the sense to send for them. Merrill and Aveline went, and I don’t think they missed anything important. Merrill thought the whole thing enormously interesting and wanted to help; Aveline said she didn’t want to be tempted to change her mind and arrest Trevelyan. So she has her armour and weapons and travelling gear. I’m not sure about money but she can draw against her account with my banker when she’s in in Antiva City.

And that, Seeker, is the tale of her last day in our fair city.

When you write her, tell her that she is welcome to come back to Kirkwall, but I advise that she not do it too soon. I’ve forgiven her, but Bran hasn’t, and he’s awfully good at holding a grudge. I’ll have to see if I can’t find something else to infuriate him so that he relaxes a bit about her.

At least we got a chance to do some overdue maintenance work on those chains.

I hope all is well with you. Things with me are about as can be expected.

Varric


	14. Sailing

Cassandra stood in her quarters, looking at the letter in her hand, her mind blank. She did not know how to assimilate what she had just read. But it was only late morning, and she had many tasks; she set it aside and did them.

The letter from Varric was still there when she returned to her table late that evening, and the wait had not improved the contents.

Antiva City, sometime in the future. Trev could be there in just over a week, perhaps less, if conditions were just right; Isabela’s was a fast ship, not like the merchanters. But at this time of year it was likely to take longer, at least twice that time. And there was nothing to say that Isabela would sail there directly; probably she would not. It could be weeks, months, before Trev would receive any letter she sent.

She had no idea where Trev would be, or for how long; she had gone with Isabela, who was thoroughly irresponsible. And Trev had been irresponsible too, getting blind drunk and causing trouble again and sailing off on a whim without any proper plans. She might not even be able to send a message until she was in Antiva City and had access to Leliana’s ravens, or at least not a message that Cassandra would receive quickly. Likely she would have the sense to know that a message sent by land would take weeks to arrive, and not bother.

What was _wrong_ with her? This was not the woman Cassandra knew. Trev, for all her occasional refusal to take things seriously, was at heart a responsible person, someone who did not go too far in her pranking. This was not right, and the wrongness was terrifying.

She had said she was broken, before she left, and Cassandra had denied it. Trev was _not_ broken. But the wrongness of this… And she had also said that she needed to find out what she could be. Why was she so intent on finding that she could be things that made her a stranger, a woman Cassandra did not know and was not entirely certain she liked?

_What is wrong with her?_

She had not eaten since receiving the letter. She felt as if she could barely swallow from fear. And now she was getting a headache, by the feel of it a bad one, probably because she had not eaten since breakfast. She rubbed her temples, opened the inkwell, and picked up her quill.

 _I received a letter from Varric about how you left Kirkwall_ , she wrote. _What are you doing? What is wrong? This is not you. I don’t understand. Is something wrong that I do not know about?_

She stared at the words, put the quill down, stood and paced, sat again, suddenly ferociously angry.

_I do not understand what you are doing. Why are you doing these things? These are not pranks, these are the acts of a criminal. You violently stole a horse. You dropped the chains of a city to stop someone leaving because you decided on a whim that you wanted to go with them. What possible excuse can there be for that? There can be no excuse for degrading yourself so. What were you thinking? Or were you too drunk to think? What is wrong with you?_

She stopped and put her head in her hands.

_I want to find you and shake you until your teeth rattle, shake sense into you, and I cannot. I do not even know where you are, beyond somewhere with Isabela. I don’t know if you’re safe. I don’t know what is happening to you. Why are you doing this?_

She flung the quill across the room and walked out. Perhaps the cold night air would clear her head, chase away the anger and fear and pain. She must prevent it from taking over, from letting it speak for her. She must be calm.

But suppressing strong emotions about her lover was not something Cassandra was good at. It was very late indeed before she returned to her quarters. She went to bed, though not to sleep, the weight of a small cat on her chest far less than the weight on her mind.

The next morning she was a little calmer, though not by much. But she had made a decision, in the small hours of the night. She must be logical about this. There was no point in berating Trev; the Inquisitor would already know exactly what she would think of such behaviour. She would not pretend she did not know what had happened, that it did not upset her, but she would not discuss it until she had Trev in front of her, in person, and they could thrash things out.

Trev had gone through a great deal, and the loss of her hand had changed her in ways Cassandra still did not completely understand. She had gone through grief and anger and any number of other emotions in ways that were confusing and unsettling. It was clear that she was still dealing with that loss, and not always well. But her letters constantly assured Cassandra that everything was fine. Trev would not lie to her if something was really wrong. After all the years of harsh, difficult responsibility it was not surprising that she would ricochet into actual troublemaking. She would find her centre again, and settle.

 _I must trust her_ , thought Cassandra, and threw what she had already written into the fire.

 _I received a letter from Varric explaining how you left Kirkwall_ , she wrote. _It distresses me, but I do not entirely know what to think about this, or what to say, so I shall say nothing about it until we are together again. For now, I will only ask: please take care, and be safe._

She would write a little more before sending it, about Vérité, about ordinary things. There was no point in sending a short message if it would be some weeks until Trev could possibly receive it. But writing the rest could wait until she was calmer.

* * *

_**Letter from Inquisitor Trevelyan to Seeker Pentaghast** _

6 Wintermarch

Dearest Cassandra,

I start this letter as I always do, and feel guilty that I should do so, because it starts it as if nothing is wrong, nothing is different, and that is a lie. My love for you is certainly unchanged, never think that. But by now I expect that you’ve heard what happened in Kirkwall, and are angry with me, and I am in entire agreement that you should be. I am angry with myself.

I don’t know how to explain myself, but I must try. ~~I can’t~~ ~~I think~~ I could use the fact that I was drunk as an excuse, but it is not a good one; drunk or sober, one is responsible for what one does. And I had told myself that I would not get so drunk again, after the adventure on Kirkwall’s roofs, and promised myself in your stead that I would be better behaved. But all my resolutions fell away, despite my good intentions, and I broke my promises in the most egregious and unforgivable ways possible. I got drunk, I attacked someone to steal their horse, I interfered with the functioning of the city, all so I could hold Isabela hostage and insist that she take me on her ship.

I cannot even properly explain why it seemed to me that I must go with them. I had not intended to; I had planned to ride north, finding a merchant caravan to accompany, for I knew that Isabela had no intention of sailing directly to Antiva City. Some of it I can’t remember, but I do have a memory of standing on the dock as they loosed the ropes holding the Wicked Grace and suddenly seeing a path open in front of my feet, and I couldn’t follow it, and it seemed so important, so vital that I do so. It wasn’t a real path, but it felt like one. Perhaps it was my mind trying to turn metaphors into reality, or something like it. But then there was nothing that mattered but to stop them, so that I could follow it.

I think that it is wrong of me to try to explain this; there can be no explanation that is reasonable, and I must accept that.

And now I must also accept the consequences. It has taken me some days to find the personal resources to do it, but I am writing a letter to Varric, apologizing, and asking him to take money from my accounts to cover the costs of repairing the damage and extra work I caused by loosing the chains, and any maintenance required for them besides. I will also enclose a message to the man whose horse I took, and ask Varric to recompense him. Money does not make up for what I did, or excuse it, but it is only right that I do something.

I can do nothing to repair what this has done to me in Varric’s eyes, or those of Aveline and Merrill and the others I had begun to consider my friends. I only hope that they will forgive me eventually, even if they no longer trust me.

I don’t know what I can do to repair the hurt this must have caused you; I am aware that any apology will be entirely inadequate. I hope that you can find it in your heart to forgive me. I ~~f only~~ That is the worst of it, that ~~I feel~~ I know that I have betrayed your love and honest belief in me. ~~I cannot bear~~ I don’t ask that you trust me now, as I have so clearly proved that such trust is misplaced. But I will try again to do better, so that by example I might rebuild the confidence you had in me. ~~I hope~~

7 Wintermarch

I put this letter aside for a time, and have come back to it a little later, and will move on to other subjects. I do not want to wallow in self-pity.

I do not recommend sailing in rough seas when recovering from too much drinking. If I thought that the trip from Cumberland was bad—no. The weather when we sailed into the Waking Sea was not so rough as it had been on the previous journey, but things were much worse for me. I could not eat for four days, and could barely take any water. There are times that I’ve felt closer to death, but none in which I have so emphatically wished for it. (Well, I suppose that this is also self-pity, though at least of a different sort.) But after four days I found my sea legs, and am better. Isabela has a good cook, and I am regaining the weight I lost.

I did not emerge from my cabin immediately, even after I felt better; I was too embarrassed and stayed in my bunk. I had begun to write my letters, and wished to see no one as I did so. I saw only the cabin boy who brought food and water and cleared my slops bucket, and every time he came I pretended to be asleep. But late yesterday Isabela came and told me that I must come on deck, that she would not have me hiding in the depths of the ship. I suppose she’d been told that I was finally eating, and realized that I was doing better. She was very firm about her orders, and the fact that she is a captain and expects to be obeyed showed very clearly, and I think she would have had me dragged from my bunk had I not acquiesced.

Today is the sixth day out. We will stop briefly in Ostwick so that I may send my letter to Varric. I do not intend to even set my foot on solid land; a sailor will take it to a reliable courier.

I will not send this letter to you yet, I cannot bring myself to do so, knowing how your feelings toward me must have changed.

When I made my way on deck I was still feeling weak and adrift, so I found a corner where I can sit out of the way and watch the waves and the sailors as they work. That made things better; it’s dark under the deck unless you keep a lantern burning, and especially during the day that is wasteful, so I had not done it. Both Isabela and Hawke came to speak to me, and were friendly. They don’t seem angry at what I did, but amused, and I suspect that I will be hearing jokes about it from them for the rest of my life. Isabela invited me to play cards with them this evening, but I pled tiredness. Maybe tomorrow.

I am tired, in truth. I feel as if I will never again know what it is not to be tired.

10 Wintermarch

It is hard to say when we will get to Antiva City. Isabela has no plan to go there immediately, and there’s no reason that she should. I know she plans to visit Estwatch and Llomerryn at least, and perhaps some other cities along the way. It all depends, she says, on what “trade items” she might pick up. She still carries a Favour of Marque and Reprisal from the Inquisition, though it holds no weight now. I’ve told her that it’s worthless, but she simply smiled and patted my shoulder and said, “Such things are never worthless, sweet thing.”

We have passed Ostwick now and are far out on the Amaranthine Ocean. It is strange to look out and see no land, and know that it would be a day’s travel to reach it. The winds are somewhat strong, but not completely against us as they had been when we sailed from Kirkwall. The waves here are bigger but run more smoothly, at least for the time being. The effect is soporific. It is very cold on deck when you aren’t moving. I wrap myself in blankets and take to my corner and watch them. The others leave me to myself. I don’t think that it is from dislike or to punish me for my behaviour; they are perfectly friendly but busy with their tasks. They seem content to let me sit as long as I don’t get in their way.

I like to lose track of time in the steady patterns of waves, the sound and the movement. It’s very restful. It lets me think. Well, I’m not thinking, not really. I am just there in the moment. There’s no past or future, only existence. The tethers of the real world seem to lift. There are endless possibilities, endless pathways, all at once. It’s like dreaming, in a way, but better than my usual dreams. It stops me seeing the things I don’t want to see but do. It’s like floating. The pathways open and shut. ~~It’s like~~ I cannot explain what it is like. At such times I am glad to be left alone. ~~I don’t want~~ Hawke comes to sit with me sometimes but rarely says anything. Usually she too is working, though. She has become a good sailor. The waves run and run and run.

16 Wintermarch

We have arrived in Estwatch, and it’s an interesting place. It is as you know notoriously lawless, but there seems to be a kind of code that people operate by nonetheless, or at least a set of expectations. Isabela gave her sailors shore leave, but only in shifts; at least half of the crew remains on board at all times, and she has in addition hired guards from a local guild, so the ship is always well defended.

I went ashore to explore Little Llomerryn on the first day, and found it very colourful in every sense of the word, but returned to the ship at dusk. The press of people unsettled me and reminded me of things I don’t want to be reminded of. And I find I have no wish to spend my evenings drinking.

19 Wintermarch

We set out from Estwatch after three days in port. I think that Isabela spent it speaking to contacts and gathering information. On the last night I did go to a tavern with Isabela and Hawke, and had an enjoyable time, but I limited my intake of ale to two mugs, and as a result I felt fine when we set to sea again. I’m glad to get back on the water. The bustle of Little Llomerryn seemed strange and oppressive to me. I find myself craving the silence of wind and waves, not the clamour of cities and towns. I don’t want so many people around. When there are too many people around I keep thinking I’m seeing people I know, people who have died, and then realizing my mistake. It’s unsettling.

I’ve been playing cards with Isabela and Hawke and some others in the evenings, but not only cards. Sailors have a number of games that they play on ship. I am very bad at most of them. There is a game with dice and a box with numbers that everyone bets heavily on. I am not convinced that some of them do not have some native, untapped magic in their veins, as my luck with this seems so bad.

They also play a sort of quoits on deck, the heaving of which makes the game very difficult. I have been practicing, but I still almost invariably lose. I have also been forced to learn to make the rope quoits, as I’ve lost a fair number of them overboard. The bo’sun, who taught me how, also instructed me on other knots of various kinds, and I’ve been amusing myself by practicing them. I’m sure that knowing how to tie a Nug’s Fist will come in handy sometime.

22 Wintermarch

Well, today I found out what information Isabela had been fishing for in Estwick. We’d been prowling close to the coast south of Wycome, tacking back and forth, and finally ducked into a small bay and hid behind a headland. She sent a sailor to stand watch from it, and at the woman’s signal set the sails with unusual speed; the sailor barely made it back to the ship before we were underway. And then we sailed out and intercepted a merchanter. There was a certain amount of trouble, as the merchanter did not wish to be intercepted, but she didn’t have the speed that the Wicked Grace did, and we quickly came alongside and boarded her. A few heads were broken in the process, as the ship had a complement of mercenaries for protection, but they were outnumbered and outsailed, and the trouble didn’t last for long. I myself picked up a few bruises from a tumble when we boarded but am otherwise unharmed.

(“I’ve always wanted to see an Inquisitor go arse over teakettle into the scuppers,” said Isabela, but I did not deign to reply. I am certain that my silence increased the air of dignity that now surrounds me.)

The ship was carrying a valuable load of Antivan wine and spirits to the south. Apparently the owner had “not met their contractual obligations” with the Felicisima Armada, or so Isabela said, and the cargo was taken in recompense and the captain told to carry back a warning to his master.

The goods were quickly and efficiently transferred to our ship and then we sailed back to Little Llomerryn. There they were speedily unloaded and then reloaded, which seemed very strange to me as I could not see that the rearrangement of the crates made them any more secure. Isabela disappeared for a couple of hours and came back looking very pleased with herself.

I feel more alert than I have in days, and more interested. I look forward to what the next days bring, and to visiting Wycome.

27 Wintermarch

We stayed in Estwick overnight and set sail early the next day, this time up the coast to Wycome. But it was not an easy trip, though the winds were fine. We met another ship—an old rival of Isabela’s—and they chose not to pass but to intercept us. They came up on us from the south, with the wind to their advantage, but there was plenty of time to arm and prepare; nothing happens that quickly on a ship. Isabela said later that they must have heard about the merchanter, and decided to lighten us of our load so that the profits would be theirs.

It was a tough, brutal fight, much harder than the taking of the merchanter. They tried to board; we fought them off for some time. They might have taken us, but Hawke unexpectedly swung across to their deck, and after demolishing a few sailors took their captain hostage. After that they were forced to yield.

I think I acquitted myself well. I was never seriously threatened, though I picked up some cuts and bruises. At least this time it was from fighting, and not from falling over!

They lost three sailors and we lost one, and there were considerable injuries and some slight damage to the ships besides. Isabela was furious. They were running empty as they clearly had expected to take our cargo, which helps to explain the speed with which they came up on us. But there was gold on board, and Isabela took that, and some small precious items from the captain’s quarters as well. Before we left them she threatened their captain. “If you ever attack me or my ship again,” she said, “I will not be so generous, and I shall make sure you do not live past the attempt.” He glowered and spat, but he looked subdued. She ordered her sailors to leave their sails and yards in disarray, so that it would take them some little time to set the ship in order again, and we crowded sail and carried on.

“Why did you not take his ship?” I asked her afterwards.

“Members of the Armada don’t take each other’s ships,” she said. “It’s the one thing that we will not take. The certainty of that guarantee is the thing that allows us to come together to fight others when it’s needed. If anyone ever does take another raider’s ship, they’ll be destroyed by the others as soon as it’s known.”

“But you took his gold and threatened to kill him,” I said.

She laughed. “Why not? That’s just business.”

“Did you mean it?”

“Oh yes,” she said coolly. “He’s been a thorn in my side for far too long, and I’m not the only one who has tired of him. He prefers to prey on others of the Armada rather than merchanters. He seems to think that it’ll give him more status and power in Estwick, though it doesn’t. But he knows that I mean it. If he attacks me again, he’ll only do so feeling sure that he can overcome me, and he’ll make sure I don’t survive.”

“I almost hope he does attack, then,” said Hawke, who can be bloodthirsty at times. Isabela grinned at her.

“Perhaps he can be provoked into something on dry land,” she said. “It would be much quicker and more convenient.” Isabela is as bloodthirsty and single-minded as Hawke when her ship is threatened.

Wycome is almost as dissolute as Little Llomerryn, which is saying something, and has a great appetite for Antivan wine. Isabela sent for a trusted wine broker, who provided a crew of dockworkers, and our holds were unloaded with great speed and efficiency. “We’ll be staying here for two days,” said our captain, and sent her crew off with bonuses while the ship was resupplied. Not all of the crew at once, of course, and she hired guards again as well, though not quite so many as in Estwick.

Isabela insisted that Hawke and I accompany her, as she wished to shop, and by the end of the day we all had new hats, though none were as fabulous as that of Admiral Isabela. I also acquired more paper for letters, as I seem to be writing a great deal, and an inkblock to carry when an inkwell is not convenient. Our potions were restocked as well, a great number having been used in recent days.

The merchanter we intercepted was in Wycome as well, perhaps fearing to return home to Antiva City to the ship’s owner and admit what had happened. The captain recognized a sailor from the Wicked Grace and had him followed, and then turned up at the docks with a Guard Captain and a mage and a mouth full of accusations. Isabela did not turn a hair. Why, she had had her shipment loaded in Estwick, she said, and here were the papers and bills of lading. The Guard Captain examined the papers and the mage seemed to examine Isabela. “These seem to be in order,” said the Guard Captain, and asked the mage for his opinion.

“She is telling the truth,” the mage said. So they left the merchanter sputtering on the docks. After he’d let out a good deal of vitriol Isabela kindly suggested that he might not wish to spread such libels around, or there could be consequences for himself and the owner he represented; he turned pale and left.

I asked Isabela about the mage, and she said that there’s a very rare type of magic that allows some mages to tell when someone is telling the truth, and requires them to be truthful themselves, so they’re called when there are accusations that cannot be proved either way. These mages aren’t always reliable, so their services are inexpensive. Furthermore, the results of some past errors have been spectacularly unfortunate, so nobles and rulers don’t trust them or use them, but in some parts of Thedas the merchants do, though more often as a threat than in reality.

Wycome and Estwick, being so close to each other, have made a complicated and mutually beneficial arrangement. If someone challenges a member of the Armada for piracy, and the cargo is wine or spirits, the Guard brings a truthteller and asks only questions that allow the accused to honestly maintain their innocence, and the case is dismissed. The reaver is free, with no penalties, the mage receives payment for services rendered, and the city’s taverns and inns, who pay a stipend to support the Guard, acquire the wine at a reduced cost. Almost everyone benefits, apart from the merchanter; but this one would have been left alone if his master had made payments according to the agreement he had with the Armada. “They always try to cheat,” Isabela said, without rancour. “They think that they can make better profits if a ship can sneak through once in a while. But they rarely succeed. All the better for us.”

I must say that the life of a pirate is considerably more organized and regulated than I had realized.

29 Wintermarch

We are back on the sea and sailing north. Isabela intends to go to Llomerryn, and then finally across to Rialto Bay and on to Antiva City. So it shouldn’t be long until I am able to send this to you.

There is a part of me that doesn’t want this part of my travels to end, that wants only to set in a corner and watch the sea and tie knots and think of nothing and fall into the rhythm of the waves. But no one can spend their lives that way. “Become a pirate!” said Isabela when I said to them over cards that I would be sorry to leave. “We would take you on as crew!” And Hawke enthusiastically assented. But pirates can’t sit in corners and do nothing; they work, and work hard. My time on Isabela’s ship was only a scattering of moments stolen from reality. I don’t think that the life of a pirate, however amusing it is to experience briefly and as a guest, would truly be the life for me.

3 Guardian

We have been to Llomerryn, where we celebrated Wintersend, and now are on our way to Antiva City. Llomerryn was very much like Little Llomerryn, in many ways, apart from being even more licentious. It does have a most amazing market, with an array of interesting goods from across Thedas, and I have finally found you a proper Satinalia gift. Other than that it was unremarkable.

The celebrations were not quite like those I’ve seen elsewhere. There was considerably less emphasis on the Maker, for one thing. But a great number of people had come for trade—Isabela said more than usual—and there were performances of theatre in the streets, as well as in more traditional locations, and a number of competitions. Several of Isabela’s crew joined those, acquitting themselves well and for the most part winning bottles of liquor, which made our Captain grin and shake her head. I did not participate. Most were sailor’s games of skill, which I’ve already demonstrated my incompetence at.

Isabela and Hawke found a tavern to spend the evening in, but after eating I returned to the ship and the gloomy sailors who had drawn guard duty, who were astonished that I would do such a thing by choice. But I didn’t feel like celebrating, and after the bustle and noise of the day I wished only for quiet.

 ~~I find myself~~ [ _paragraph, scribbled out_ ] I hope there is a letter from you waiting for me in Antiva City, whatever it says.

6 Guardian

I am in Antiva City now, with Josephine and Leliana. I will wrap this up as quickly as possible and send it by one of Leliana’s ravens.

Your note awaited me here. ~~You did not~~ You have been kind and reasonable in your reply, but I know that you must be angry and confused. I almost wish you had berated me instead. I do not deserve your kindness.

But yes, we will speak of it all when we are together again. Maybe I will be able to understand myself better by then.

Oh my heart, I was not certain that you would not be so angry that you would refuse to write to me, and there would be no letter waiting. I am so very glad that I was wrong.

I love you. I miss you so much.

Trev


	15. Antiva City

_**Letter from Seeker Pentaghast to Inquisitor Trevelyan** _

11 Guardian

Beloved,

I have received your letter. I am so relieved to hear that you are safe in Antiva City. Yes, the tale from Varric distressed and angered and confused me. But I also know that you are honest with me, and that when we are together we will be able to talk frankly and sort it all out. I know that to try to do so by letters would be a very bad idea indeed, when I find it so hard to write clearly and it takes so long to exchange messages.

I do not always trust your good sense, but I do trust you. Please do not tumble beyond sensible regret into abusive self-recriminations and self-doubt. I know what you are capable of, the kindness and honesty at your core. That is what is important. Hold onto that, for it is the heart of you.

I am glad that you enjoyed your time at sea with Isabela and Hawke. You will have to teach me some sailor’s games, perhaps I will be better at them than I am at Wicked Grace. And I must say that you have provided an interesting window into the life of a pirate. I must also say that I am glad that you have decided not to join them.

I think that I understand how you feel about the ocean, though I have never been drawn to it in quite the same way that you seem to be. It is so enormous, and its waves roll on steadily regardless of what we do. It puts everything we do in perspective.

The building here is going very well. The floors of the tower are up, and the inner walls, and now doors are being put in place. At this rate it will not be so long before it will be livable. Before the roads closed I ordered a shipment of tapestries and furnishings from Val Royeaux, to arrive in the spring, and expect to move in then. They will not be elaborate, but they will do. The speed at which the builders work seems amazing to me; there were parts of Skyhold that were never properly repaired in all the years we were there. But then here at Vérité we are not fighting a war.

Completing the tower will give us much needed additional space, for I have been sending letters back and forth and we will receive our first young apprentices in the spring as well. It will be a small group of them, only five, but it is a start. Your friend Carlyle, who tells me that she is “almost nine,”—she apparently insisted on contributing to the official correspondence about her candidacy—will be one of them. The rest are some of the youngest apprentices sent home by Lucius. All will be starting (or restarting) their training at an older age than has been customary, but I think it will work. I hope that it will. They will partner with the Templars who are now Seeker candidates, who will have duties instructing them in basic fighting techniques.

I understand now what you meant about Carlyle’s abilities. She wanted desperately to become a Seeker, but she also did not want to be separated from her brother Castor. In the end, much to my surprise, she managed to negotiate an agreement that she would be apprenticed as a Seeker and Castor would be apprenticed to both our apothecary and our healer, their practices being complementary. (Adan and Segal were surprised to find that they will have a young apprentice, but not displeased, and I would not have agreed if I had not known that it was something they would accept. Adan is gruff but kind beneath it, and much less short-tempered than he was when he served the Inquisition.)

The innkeeper is their uncle—their parents died during the unrest of the past years, and so the two of them are orphans. Henning gave them a home willingly, but was glad enough to apprentice them together, as their services were not really needed by him and he wanted better for his sister’s children than he could provide. It is encouraging to know that although the Seekers fell to corruption, there is still enough of a reputation that people still see an apprenticeship as a benefit, even with the new understanding of the hazards associated with standing vigil.

Each of the apprentices will of course have a mentor, and I expect that I will take one of them on. A barracks will be set up for the students in the tower, and I am arranging tutors for their training. I have sent messages to Josephine and Cullen asking them to send word of scholars who might be able to teach general subjects, and hope that we will be able to find at least one or two by spring. If we cannot find people we will have to make do, and I will do some of the teaching myself. I am not certain how I feel about this—I have mentored, but have rarely taught in a structured way.

There is little more to say; our lives here are repetitive and there is not much news. As spring approaches this will change, I hope. I would be able to say considerably more if I could speak about your Satinalia gift, were its nature not a secret. (Yes, I am teasing you, in an effort to make you return to me sooner out of sheer curiosity.)

Give my love and regards to Josephine and Leliana. Do you know how long you will be in Antiva City?

One more thing—my love, I will never refuse to write to you. At worst, if something upsets me terribly, I might put it off for a few days until I can respond calmly. But I will always write. You have my heart, and it will always speak to you. You are my heart. I miss you desperately.

Take care, my love.

Cassandra

* * *

_**Letter from Inquisitor Trevelyan to Seeker Pentaghast** _

7 Guardian

Dearest Cassandra,

I am taking up my pen to write this almost immediately after sending my last letter, as so much has happened in such a short time.

When the Wicked Grace arrived in Antiva City I made my farewells to Isabela and Hawke and the rest. Isabela said I was welcome to join their crew any time, and that I would be doubly welcome if I brought my stern and silent Seeker with me. I said there were some things I would not share, and her response was that you were entirely decorative enough to be a benefit even without my doing so, though she would live in hope.

I was sad to leave them, but glad to see Josephine and Leliana. I hired a guide at the docks to take me to the Montilyet estate, and after a little time—I am not quite certain that the route was as direct as it could have been—came there. Josephine was home, and greeted me with great pleasure; I felt as welcome as if I had been part of her family. Leliana arrived a little later, and seemed equally happy to see me.

The Montilyets live on a street called the Boulevard of the Seas, where a great number of the merchants live. The street itself is remarkable, being paved in turquoise and sea-green tiles. They change colour as the light and the sky changes, giving the impression of being on a ship at sea, with the ocean always changing. Have you seen this before?

The Montilyet residence is not so impressive as some, as the family does not hold the power and influence of the greatest merchant princes, but is very fine nonetheless, and filled with beautiful works of art. Josephine tells me that most families have estates both in the city and country, moving with the seasons. The most palatial are not only beautiful but designed to be well defended, and the most important merchants maintain whole armies to protect them, in the way that the highest nobles in Orlais and Ferelden do.

While the city is their usual residence, most of Josephine’s family is at their country estate now, which is a relief. I’m not certain if I am quite ready to be overwhelmed by Antivan hospitality. I’m told that Yvette will be arriving in a few days.

I’ve been given a lovely room, spacious and very well appointed, and was able to have a bath, a delight and necessity after all the time at sea, where bathing involves salt water. It’s much warmer here, even in early spring, and my first task tomorrow will be to purchase new and lighter clothing more suitable to the climate. Leliana and Josephine have promised to take me to their tailor, and in the meantime have found some clothing to lend which fits me reasonably well, so that I will not expire from the heat before my new garments are ready.

The fashions here are designed for the climate, and while completely proper are also sometimes more revealing in their hints of the bodies beneath the light fabric. Most women wear flowing dresses, as they are cooler, but a good many wear breeches and shirts, so I will not be entirely conspicuous. The clothing is much lighter in weight than I am used to, which feels odd, and the sleeves are loose, gathered at the wrists, which make me feel very dashing when I gesture. I wish you were here, so I could see you dressed this way. I think it would suit you very well, to the extent that I am not certain that we would ever get out of our room before I had you out of your clothes again. Have I mentioned yet how much I miss you?

Josephine and Leliana and I spent a delightful evening together, talking of many things. Well, most of it was delightful. It seems that Leliana’s network is still very good at finding things out. Or perhaps Varric wrote to her. In any case, they were both well aware of the circumstances under which I left Kirkwall. Josephine was, I think, quite shocked, whereas Leliana was merely amused, and doubly amused by my embarrassment. And while I trust that our former Ambassador will in the interests of delicacy forget the whole thing, I believe that our former spymaster will not, and is likely to tease me about it for the rest of my life.

I have retired to my room now, and begun this letter to you. I shall add to it as my adventures continue.

11 Guardian

The visit to the tailor went very well, and I now have a suit of new clothes and the promise of more, including an outfit suitable for formal occasions. Even the bootmaker had to be visited in my quest for appropriate clothing, as my usual boots, being of heavy leather, were much too warm. The new lightweight boots I ordered are entirely useless in any practical sense, but I am told that they are thoroughly fashionable. You would be most impressed by me, I am sure.

I had the most unexpected encounter today, one that I found surprisingly unsettling. You will recall, of course, the matter of the contract the House of Repose held on the Montilyet family, and how that was settled by Leliana against Josephine’s wishes. Well, apparently the whole affair impressed the assassins, and they offered their services to her. She did not accept them as assassins, it being against her principles to work that way, but she did hire them to guard her family’s ships against attacks from Rivaini pirates, many of which (our friend excepted) have for some reason particularly taken against House Montilyet recently.

The guild members who work for Josephine are led by a man named Martin Duval, and today we were introduced, as he had come to report to Josephine on some matters relating to her fleet. He thoroughly unsettled me, for no good reason. If the House of Repose is willing to forgive Josephine, why would they feel differently about the Inquisition, in the person of myself? And to be sure he was exquisitely polite. But assassins are polite and charming, aren’t they? Certainly Zevran was, though I’m not sure if he is typical. I couldn’t help wondering if there was a contract on my life outstanding, and if so whether his current employment would lead him to protect me or carry out the contract. I think that good manners would require that he protect me, but I still feel nervous and on edge. It’s very silly, I’m sure.

12 Guardian

I slept poorly last night; it seems that meeting Duval affected me more than I thought. I could not seem to stop dreaming, and the dreams were all grim and frightening, all blood and horror, with the dead come to taunt and threaten me and everything I care for. In the end, after several attempts at sleeping, I gave up and lit a fire and sat and read.

I wish you were here to hold me and tell me not to be silly. No, I wish that you were here to hold me and tell me everything is all right. Maybe you would be able to convince me that it is, and that there is no need for this dull foreboding.

Well. On to something more cheerful. You probably already have word directly from both Josephine and Leliana, so this may be old news, but here it is anyway.

Josephine has thrown herself into the family business in a way that would be familiar to anyone who knew her with the Inquisition, and is mixing strategy, efficiency and the application of a kind of Antivan variation of the Game in a way that has substantially improved the Montilyet fortunes. If you thought her golden before, you should see her now; she practically glows with pride and satisfaction. She will be an excellent head of family, to be sure. Her family still wishes her to marry, but she is in negotiations with them on that subject. She is quite firm that she will not be parted from Leliana, who makes her glow even more, and they have agreed that they will adopt children to meet the requirements of inheritance, likely the children of one of her siblings. Though I think Leliana would like to adopt outside the family; there are so many children now that were orphaned by our wars who are in need.

Leliana—ah, I have never seen Leliana like this, so relaxed and loving and playful. I remarked upon it, and she said that she had regained something she had long thought lost. I am so very happy that she found this part of herself again.

Josephine has been introducing me to the wines from her family’s vineyards. My love, the wine! Not all that they make is exported, in general it is only the most common sorts and a few of the best vintages for the nobility. But here in Antiva there are so many types of grape; as well as the most hardy and productive, the larger vineyards tend to cultivate a few special varieties, producing limited vintages of those for local consumption. I am greatly enjoying trying them—though I am being careful to limit my intake—and look forward to tasting more.

16 Guardian

Your letter arrived today and I immediately took it to my room to read it privately. And as I did so I felt myself relax as I have not done in some time. It’s such a relief to let go of fear I didn’t even know I was still carrying. I don’t know what to say but thank you, thank you for your love and trust in me. I will try not to betray it again. I carry your words with me as if they were your arms around me; in a way it is as if you are here with me, to tell me you love me and settle my nerves.

I am delighted to hear that Carlyle has wrapped you around her finger as easily as she did me; it makes me think that I am not so weak as I thought. Seriously, I think that she will be a good candidate, having intelligence, determination, and great strength of mind. I look forward to seeing the two of them when I return to Vérité, and to meeting the other apprentices. It will be good to have children there.

Yvette arrived this afternoon. By the time she had been greeted by Josephine and Leliana, had her trunks delivered to her room, and spoken to me, she had already said at least three things to set her sister aflutter at her impropriety. But I think that she is not nearly so careless and frivolous and lack-witted as she sometimes seems, as I caught a sly smile on her face when she thought no one was looking. I think she enjoys excitement, and so takes care to stir it up, especially when there is the added benefit of flustering her sibling. I also think she is a little rebellious at the expectations House Montilyet places on its children, and in that I have some sympathy.

To answer your question about where I shall be, Josephine would like us to visit the Montilyet estate in the country while I am here, to meet the rest of her family, and so plans are underway to so do. I therefore expect to be either there or in Antiva City for at least a couple of weeks more, perhaps as long as a month.

The visit to the estate has been put off for a little, however, as word has come about more attacks on her family’s ships, and she needs to take some action to deal with the problem. In the interim I’ve been exploring the city, sometimes with Leliana and sometimes alone. Leliana has friends in all sorts of places, and it is interesting to meet them. Charter was here briefly; it was good to see her again; her travels have been interesting, though she has not encountered our mutual friend.

As for your teasing about my Satinalia gift—yes, you have piqued my curiosity, as you intended to. Something that provides you with an ongoing subject to talk about? I can barely restrain myself from rushing back to you! In retaliation, perhaps I should tease you about my gift for you. It is very exotic, certainly, and Isabela approved its purchase. There, that should worry you.

We have attended a number of soirées, which are much as they are anywhere: sometimes enjoyable, sometimes tedious. Josephine and Leliana have been trying to convince me to purchase a dress to wear to such affairs, and their combined persuasions have been both focused and determined; I’m not sure I have ever been the subject of their attentions in quite this way, even in preparation for the Winter Palace. But I am standing resolute. No gowns; I maintain that my formal wear is more than adequate for any occasion. They roll their eyes and say, “Perhaps if you had more than one suit of it!” They might not accept my innate disinclination toward gowns as a reason to give up hope, but I pointed out that the current fashions would not disguise the arm Dagna made, and I don’t want to draw more attention to it than it already attracts. Leliana murmured something about my being able to instigate new fashions, but Josephine hushed her, and I think—hope—that we may finally be done with the subject.

The Royal Palace is lovely, all slender towers and brightly coloured glass. It hardly looks substantial enough to be real; but then, it is not where the real power in Antiva lies, so perhaps that is appropriate. The Golden Plaza with its gilded statues is fascinating; I have been making note of some of the more interesting people celebrated, and reading about them in the books Josephine keeps in her library. All Antivan libraries are comprehensive in their records, I am given to understand, as the complex relationships and histories are so relevant to the negotiations and maneuvering of the merchants. I do a good deal of reading at night when I find it difficult to sleep, but I doubt that I shall ever run out of interesting books while I’m here.

Antiva City has a surprising number of brothels—well, perhaps not quite so surprising, as Antivans are far more permissive than Fereldans and Marchers. Some of them keep children outside, gilded in the same way as the statues of the Golden Plaza, and they stand just as still, moving only enough to startle the passers-by and draw attention to their employer. Such stillness is not natural to children, and I don’t like to think of how they were trained to be so. Leliana tells me that they are the offspring of the women who work there, rather than prostitutes themselves, which is some comfort. But once they reach a certain age they are usually auctioned off, generally to the Crows. I am not sure that’s much better. Now I understand why Antiva has so many assassins. I had been finding Antiva City terribly romantic; I find it less so now. I almost wish I could buy all the auctioned children and send them to you as apprentices, to know that they would be kindly treated and have a future doing good. But that is impossible, and such a gesture would make no difference in the end, would it? It might even encourage the market.

It is a strange city. I am enjoying my visit here, but I don’t feel at home. There are too many deadly currents running underneath the pleasant surface, as there are in Orlais. But I understand Orlais pretty well, and I don’t entirely feel that I understand Antiva. Perhaps that’s why I feel so disturbed.

I shall take my discomfort to the harbour, and sit in a café and watch the ships and the passing people. Josephine told me that the promenade never sleeps, and I have found this to be so. It is a useful distraction when unpleasant thoughts ride me.

Oh Cassandra, I do want to return to you, but I think it will still be some time before I can. I feel all unsettled still, and need to find the ground beneath my feet again. But I will come home to you as soon as I may. I miss you so much.

18 Guardian

I was sitting on the terrace of a café on the promenade when I thought I saw someone I knew. Do you remember Alvar, the scout who was so often part of Harding’s crew when we travelled? She died at Adamant, of course, but I did not think of that—all I could think of was that she was passing, and had not seen me, and I was on my feet before I could think about it, and shouting her name. And then I realized that it could not be her, and felt foolish.

But she turned around and looked at me. “Do I know you?” she said.

It was not Alvar, of course, that was clear when I got a better look, but she seemed very like. I stammered something idiotic about thinking she was someone I knew, and she said, “But my name is Alvar. Perhaps you have met one of my sisters, we all look very much alike.”

Well, that was an awkward situation.

“I’m afraid that I was foolish,” I said, and I’m sure that I was red as an apple, “for the woman I worked with died at Fortress Adamant. It was just that you looked so much like her that for a moment I forgot.”

She stared at me for a moment, looking me over. “You are the Inquisitor,” she said finally, and I admitted that this was so. “My sister Carmen wrote about you. She was very proud to serve the Inquisition, and approved of you very much. She said you weren’t like most nobles.”

“She was a good woman and an excellent scout,” I managed.

“The letter you sent when she died,” she said. “It meant everything to our mama. Most don’t take the time to send, you know? Not beyond ‘Sorry, she’s gone.’ But you wrote a proper letter, in your own hand.” That reduced me to a state of complete wordlessness. I couldn’t think what to say.

“You didn’t say exactly how she died,” she said then, “only that she gave her life protecting others,” and that I was able to answer.

“She part of a squad protecting some mages,” I said. “A demon knocked her off the wall.”

She looked at me for a time. “You remember that,” she said slowly, and then, “Will you come and tell mama how it happened?”

Well, I couldn’t refuse, though it made me feel sick to think of and I immediately began to imagine excuses. I didn’t speak any of them, but I thought of them. I paid my bill and she led me out of the fashionable part of the docks and to a poorer area and a small building tucked up against a warehouse. Her father was head guard for a merchant, she said, and lodgings at the warehouse were provided as part of his pay.

It was late in the day, so both the mother and father were home, and so was another sister, the youngest one, who was probably only about fourteen. Carmen was the eldest, it seems. They invited me in and Alvar’s sister, whose name turned out to be Esmé, introduced me. They made me sit in the best place, and the mother made tea, and then I had to tell the story of their daughter’s death.

It was just an ordinary death in war, like so many that happened in that time. I was sorry I couldn’t make the story more heroic. But she died doing her duty, and protecting others, and maybe that was heroic enough. They seemed to think so.

It was funny. I felt sick going there, but I felt better afterwards, and I think they did too. I used to send off so many messages of condolence when I was Inquisitor, because so many died in my service. It never felt quite real, and it never felt like enough. But somehow this did. I’m glad I went with Alvar’s sister, instead of telling her I didn’t have the time.

19 Guardian

Yvette has been telling me of her art. She talks a great deal about it, but she does not seem to produce very much, and also talks a great deal about other people’s work and how she wishes she could buy it, and honestly I’m not certain whether she wants most to be an artist or a patron. If she wants to be a patron she is severely hampered by her youth and lack of funding, I’m afraid; collecting art is not a cheap pursuit.

She showed me a sketch she had purchased recently for a very reasonable price in the market. Respectable artists don’t sell there, she tells me, but this caught her attention. Apparently it was done by a young boy. It was a drawing of the women of a brothel resting, and somewhat crude but on the whole very well done. She thinks he has enormous talent, and even I could see the personality and life in it. But unfortunately he is the son of a prostitute and therefore will likely soon be sold to the Crows.

“I can afford to buy his sketches because the brothel owner sells them cheaply,” Yvette said, “but I wish I could afford to buy his freedom and apprentice him to an artist to learn more, so that he might support himself with his talent. I asked my father to help me do so, but he says it would be expensive and foolish, that one cannot purchase every slave who has potential, and the boy will have a good chance with the Crows.”

I suppose that he’s right, but it does seem a shame that such talent should be wasted. I find myself thinking about this a great deal. I’m wondering if I might see about purchasing him myself, so that he can be freed, assuming this is what he would choose in preference to a life with the Crows, which would have to be determined. I could certainly afford it. And then we would have to find a good mentor to apprentice him to, one who would not mistreat him, and not all citizens are open-minded about the children from the brothels, so that would have to be carefully handled.

It could be done. But is it worth it? It is only one boy, and there are so many boys and girls who need such help. I can’t help them all, and how does one choose? Is it fair to only help those who show some kind of extra talent? I don’t think it is.

But the alternative is helping no one. I think that I will speak more to Yvette about this.

Josephine has finally determined what is going on with the attacks on her ships. It seems that the heir of the Rios merchant family, which is not of any great importance, has somewhat recently come into control over his estates and decided that he would improve his family’s standing at the expense of the Montilyets. He has targeted their ships in particular, believing that they are vulnerable against predation, having only recently begun to build up their fortunes again, and therefore are a fairly safe source of profit. Apparently this tactic, while out of the ordinary, is not absolutely unheard of in Antivan merchant politics, and families have in fact sometimes bettered themselves while ruining others in this way. The fact that he took one or two ships has encouraged him, though I very much doubt that he will take more.

He is a very stupid man. Now that Josephine understands what is happening, she will take steps to counter him, and I have no doubt whatsoever that he will come out the worse in their engagement; he has angered her, which is never a safe thing to do with our Ambassador. She said that she will make it clear to him that he has made a mistake and that his family’s good standing will only continue on her sufferance.

Leliana, of course, wishes to take direct action against him, and I must say that I am in agreement with her on this. The Montilyets are doing well, but their position is still a bit tenuous, and I think it would be wise to send a stern warning to others who might think to take advantage of them.

But let me close this letter for now; I shall write more as things unfold. I think that likely we will still go to the Montilyet estate, only our visit will be a little more delayed.

Josephine and Leliana send their love and best regards. I have been so enjoying seeing them again, and wish you could too.

I miss you, my love. Be safe, be strong, be who you are. Thank you for trusting in me.

Trev

* * *

_**  
Letter from Seeker Pentaghast to Inquisitor Trevelyan** _

16 Guardian

Beloved,

I have been able to ride out from Vérité, finally, as the snows have melted somewhat. The trails are mostly passable by foot or horse, though not yet by wagon. But it was good to leave the hold; I had not realized how confined I felt there until I left for a day of riding. I wish that I could ride on and leave it all behind, and come to you. But I cannot, not yet.

The tower is finished and habitable, apart from the furnishings. The workings for managing the reservoir and spring are also finished, including the diversion to Shenker’s brewery. The latter is producing ales of various sorts with great efficiency, all of which are very good. When the goods ordered arrive we will move to the tower and turn the lodge over to Shenker. There will need to be some repurposing of other buildings as well, with consequent renovations, and of course there is the wall around the keep still to build. It will be busy, as always, but should begin to feel more settled. I think that you will like our quarters in the tower. They are high and airy, but easy to warm in winter, and have an excellent view.

The days pass slowly, but they pass. We have had no full brawls since the last I mentioned, but there are always fights that happen during the winter; others feel as trapped as I do, and our nerves are stretched until minor offenses become greater ones. We instituted a program of weekly games and contests after First Day, and that has helped somewhat. Things will be better now that spring is coming.

I have received responses to some of the inquiries that I sent, and have hired two tutors for the apprentices. They come with excellent references and an expressed willingness to live in the back of beyond, away from the pleasures of the cities. They will arrive soon. I am hopeful that they will be a good fit for us and not leave after experiencing the first winter here. But after this summer’s building the hold should be far more comfortable and spacious, so that will help.

19 Guardian

I must tell you of recent events, for nothing quite so exciting has happened in some time. As you know, we have cats to keep the rats and mice from the grain and other supplies, and it has worked very well. But there is always someone who thinks that a good thing can be improved.

One of the workers brought in a “rat-dog” to assist the cats, believing that dogs are far more efficient than cats in such matters. I’m not sure what he was thinking of. It is a small thing, a terrier of some sort, hairy and short-legged, with a pointed nose and hysterical temperament. It is also very noisy and startles at the least thing, and I have begun to appreciate the intelligence and relative silence of mabari a great deal more.

The cats were not appreciative. The dog, unimaginatively named Ratter, attempted to intimidate them and was not successful. Really, this is something anyone who knows cats would have expected. Instead Ratter was the one put in fear of his life, and began to avoid the places where the cats congregate, which of course include the granary. This meant that he wasn’t much use for his purpose.

Having been thwarted by the cats, Ratter evidently went looking for something else to do one night, and chewed his way into the chicken coop. The result was unfortunate in every way. He went for the eggs, I think, and the hens panicked. But the rooster would have none of it, and our rooster, while not large, is one of the most aggressive scraps of ferocity that I have ever seen.

The rooster survived, with some loss of feathers, and stands triumphant. His ego has been even more inflated than usual, and he crows at all times of the day or night, which is confusing everyone’s sleep.

The chickens got out of the hole the dog made and took refuge in the tower. They emerge during the day to forage, but have refused to go back to their coop. They return to the tower every night, which has made it considerably less habitable than it was, and the workers have complained. We have made several unsuccessful attempts to force them out, but it is surprisingly difficult to catch a determined and evasive chicken.

Ratter was severely bloodied, and in the end hid under his owner’s bed. He has refused to come out ever since. On the whole I cannot be sorry for this.

23 Guardian

Your letter has come, and I spent the evening reading and rereading it, and then the next day thinking about it, and now it is evening again and I can begin to reply.

I am not certain what to think about the hints you make about the Satinalia gift you have gotten for me. A gift approved by Isabela? This is a troubling idea, which I am sure is exactly your intent. I can only respond by saying that your Satinalia gift has caused unexpected problems here. But I cannot tell you what they are without giving away what your gift is.

As I am known to be stern and silent, I shall ignore in its entirety the invitation from Isabela to join her crew. I am sure that it is safer that way, despite your provocations.

I am familiar with the fashions of Antiva, and I would love to see you in your new clothing. I am in agreement that you must look entirely dashing. As to the soirées and the question of a dress—I have your back in this, should you need a defender, though I am sure that you do not. You are already elegant and beautiful and catch the eye of everyone in a room without frivolous attire.

Bah, you know that I am not comfortable at such events. But I will tell you this, with regard to a frothy, fashionable dress: I can imagine only one benefit to your wearing one, and it is that the complexity of their construction would make removing it from you a slow and thoroughly enjoyable process. I confess that I found myself thinking of this and missing you most dreadfully.

I am sorry that fools stare at your arm, my love. Given how many have such injuries after all the year of war, I think that it is most likely not the arm itself that draws attention, except insofar as it is a unique masterpiece of engineering, but the story that it represents. That will change as time passes and your tale is not so fresh. Leliana’s letters tell me that Dagna has shared some of her techniques with other smiths, and likely such arms will become more common and less notable.

As for Leliana—even if she retires from public life entirely she will always have her finger on the pulse of what is happening, and know exactly what we are all up to no matter how far we spread. I am so glad to hear that her happiness continues. There was a time I worried about her greatly, but now she has found her balance and I think she will not lose it again. However, I can attest that the wickedness of her sense of humour has been a constant, though it might not be so commonly expressed when she is not happy. I think that you are right, and you will be teased forever, as I am about some things. And no, I will not tell you what. Not in a letter, at least.

Yes, I have visited Antiva City and seen the Boulevard, though at the time I did not know Josephine and so I do not know the Montilyet residence.

I am sorry that the House of Repose’s agent so disturbed you. It is not surprising that they took employment with the Montilyets; assassins are thoroughly practical and admire efficiency, competence, and ruthlessness, and not necessarily in that order. It is not likely that they will hold any grudge against you.

It worries me to hear that your dreams still trouble you so. I know that you don’t wish to talk about them, but do you think that it might help to settle your mind to do so? You know that I will always listen, and there is also Leliana. I know that she suffered from nightmares in the past, though that is something she keeps very much to herself and I tell you this only in confidence. She teases, but I think that she would not tease about this, and she might be able to suggest ways to at least lessen the impact of your nightmares.

I wish that I was there to hold you. I ache for you, my love.

The problem with the Rivaini pirates is worrisome, but I think that Josephine will deal very efficiently with the threat to the Montilyets, now that the source of it is found. She is in her element, after all, and knows exactly what to do in any given situation in order to extract the greatest benefit. I have no doubt that by her actions the interests of the Rios family will be utterly destroyed, and that the Montilyets will be advanced. Leliana may wish to take action that produces speedier results, and I know that your inclinations will lead you in the same direction, but unless Josephine asks, it will not be necessary and may do harm to her plans—please, do not encourage our spymaster!

I also have no doubt that Josephine’s negotiations with her family over the question of marriage and an heir will be resolved successfully, and allow her relationship with Leliana to continue. I am very glad to hear that the two of them are doing so well, and so happy.

I hope that you will have an opportunity to visit the country estate and meet Josephine’s parents and siblings. As to Yvette, I imagine that her frivolousness does not run quite as deep as it seems to. She is likely almost as skilled at manipulating people as her sister, and doubtless has found all of Josephine’s weaknesses.

And now I will send this letter, for the first caravan of the year has arrived, carrying welcome supplies, and there is much to do. The caravans bringing the furniture should follow soon, so that we will be able to make the tower habitable, and then the children will come. I expect that things will be very busy for a time.

All my love,

Cassandra

* * *

The kittens were a surprise; Cassandra had thought that Handful was simply becoming fat and lazy as so many cats did over the winter in a hold well stocked with mice. But after a busy day working with Emery in the tower, she had returned to her quarters to find the proud mother and six tiny mewing wisps curled up in her bed. She had rarely been so simultaneously startled and delighted. The cats of Skyhold had litters of kittens fairly often, of course, but despite their fondness for her none had nested in her quarters, and she regarded Handful’s choice of birthing bed as a great compliment.

A somewhat inconvenient compliment, of course; it could not be allowed to continue. She did not want to roll over in the night and crush a kitten. And even if that was not a danger, certainly Trev would never be able to reclaim her space if the entire family had taken it over. Cassandra visited the kitchens first, to secure a large basket, and then stores, where she acquired a small blanket. Handful at first seemed doubtful that this accommodation was an improvement, expressing a great deal of concern about the moving of the kittens; but the spot Cassandra chose for the basket had the advantage of being close to the fire, and eventually she settled into her warm new bed with a great deal of purring.

Trev should have been there, to exclaim with her. She would have loved to see how tiny the kittens were, how endearing. She would have lain on the floor beside the basket, and praised Handful for her cleverness and bravery, and admired the white spot on the little black one’s nose, and the unlikely length of the whiskers of the tiny ginger, and found something unique to delight in for each and every one. They would still be here when she returned, but even if she was to turn toward home tomorrow they would not be kittens in the same way; she would have missed that.

And she was not likely to turn toward home tomorrow, for clearly her mind was not settled, her restlessness not assuaged. _Oh my love_ , thought Cassandra, _please find what you are looking for, and come home_.

 


	16. Disaster

_**Letter from Inquisitor Trevelyan to Seeker Pentaghast** _

23 Guardian

Cassandra,

I am sorry to report that things here have gone very wrong. Leliana and I made an attempt to aid Josephine, but it seems this was unwise, and I have been drawn into the machinations of the Montilyet enemies. The long and the short of it is that while I slept they delivered a clear threat and stole Dagna’s arm. I had not realized quite how much I had come to depend on it until it was gone.

I am not certain whether I am intended to be a hostage or an example, but I find either explanation distasteful. It seems that there is little to be done about it. Josephine and Leliana assure me that the arm will be recovered, but I am less sanguine about the whole thing: I think it quite reasonable to assume that it will by now have been sunk in the deepest part of Rialto Bay.

I will write more when I can but right now I have no heart for it.

Trev

* * *

_**Letter from Sister Leliana to Seeker Pentaghast** _

23 Guardian

I have read the Inquisitor’s note to you, and enclosed it in my own letter so that you will understand what is happening, for I am not certain that she will send more to you, at least for a time. I know that you’ll be angry that I have read your private correspondence, but save your recriminations—it was necessary. I need to know that you are kept fully informed, and I am doubtful that Trevelyan will be calm enough to do so. This has hit her very hard.

I know she has told you about Josephine’s difficulties with the Rios family. Their actions against the Montilyets are not the sort that are entirely unforgivable in the Antivan version of the Game, but they walk a fine line. Apparently they feel that the advancement of their cause is worth the risks they take. Josephine was and is determined to prove them wrong.

It seemed to me that people who were so prepared to advance their cause by harming others so directly would likely have things to hide, and that Josephine’s efforts would be strengthened by having proof of that. My friends were able to gather some information, but nothing that would stand independently of the word of one family against another. But they determined that such proof likely existed, and where it would be kept.

Josephine did not want me to do anything with this knowledge, but I believed that it would be worth crossing her will to do so. I arranged, with the assistance of some of my friends, that Trevelyan and I would break into a warehouse office to retrieve documents that I was certain were there. We got in easily enough, and I was able to bypass the protections that had been put in place and pick the lock of the safe in which the documents were kept. We took them, and then all that was left was to take our leave with as little notice.

But in this part we were not successful. We were seen, and I had to kill the guard who saw us. I had not realized, though, that there was more than one. I don’t think that I was recognized, but the Inquisitor was, probably because of the arm.

Two nights later Trevelyan woke in the early hours of morning to find her artificial arm gone, and another in its place. The arm that had been left for her was a real one; I suspect it came from one of the guards who should have stopped us, as Eduardo Rios Degado, the heir, is known to be ruthless and bloodthirsty in taking his revenge against any who annoy him, but perhaps it was from the guard I killed or a pauper at the mortuary. In any case, the arm had been enchanted, and the hand had been cut open and a green, glowing stone placed into it. It unnerved me to see it, and had a considerably worse effect on the Inquisitor.

We determined later that Trevelyan had already been having bad dreams when she woke, and it was some time before she could find the distinction between dreams and reality. Josephine got her to another room and stayed with her for the rest of the night, trying to calm her, but it took a long time to do so and she is not yet truly recovered.

I know exactly what look you have on your face now, Seeker. If it makes you feel better, I think it will be a long time before Josephine forgives me for this, if she does so at all. But I still believe that my actions were warranted. We do have evidence to use against the Rios family now, and it is the sort that will ruin them. That is why they left such a clear warning, and took the arm: they are desperate.

They are not as desperate as Josephine and I are angry, though, for not all of her anger is reserved for me. This will be dealt with. Our first priority will be to find the Inquisitor’s arm. And if Trevelyan’s arm cannot be recovered, as she fears, then I will personally travel with her to Denerim to ensure its replacement, and pay the costs to Dagna.

I will throughout the settling of this, against your wishes, continue to read any letters the Inquisitor sends to you, and if she does not send I will make sure that you are informed as to what is happening. I know that this will anger you, but you must also admit that it is better that you should know all, yes?

Nightingale

* * *

_I am going to kill you, Leliana_ , thought Cassandra, throwing the letter down in a surge of panicked rage. _I am going to—_

She could not keep still, and paced back and forth. She was already on her feet, having taken the letter close to a window to read; it was still early and the light was dim. The raven had arrived very late last night, and Asher had not sent it to her until the morning, knowing that she would be abed. _He presumes too much! He must not keep things from me. I must make it very clear that any letter from the Inquisitor or Leliana is to brought to me immediately, no matter what the hour, and that every one of his agents understands that._

Asher had held the letter from her. Leliana had gotten Trev into trouble, no, worse, she had put her in danger. Trev had been hurt. Cassandra wanted to sink her teeth into something, someone. She wanted to batter them. She wanted—she flipped her table, sending books and papers and various sundries everywhere; her inkwell splashed its contents across the floor, though for a miracle it did not smash.

Trev had given it to her; it was made from Serault glass, and very beautiful. It did not smash, though her cup had. Cassandra bent, hands shaking, to pick up the inkwell and its stopper, and set it carefully on a window ledge, and then wiped inkstained fingers against her breeches.

 _Damn_ Leliana.

There was nothing she could do. That was the worst of it. She was here, and Trev was there, and with so many miles in between. She could not strike at Leliana. She could not strike at Trev’s enemies.

She could not comfort Trev, which was the worst of it.

Her mind felt hot and swollen, as if an iron band from the forge wrapped around it. She was not safe to be around. She must recover herself.

The door opened, and Emery stepped inside, then stopped abruptly. Of course. It was time for their morning meeting. Cassandra resisted the urge to throw something at her, resisted her mind’s insistence that she be left alone, that she strike out at any who approached. This was not Emery’s fault. She schooled her face to impassivity.

“What is wrong?” said Emery cautiously.

After all this time working together they knew each other quite well. Emery knew that she had a temper. Emery would understand that the state of the room was not an accident. But Cassandra momentarily found herself speechless; how could she put this into words?

In place of answering immediately, she picked up the table and set it on its legs. “I received news that the Inquisitor has been placed in danger,” she said carefully. “She is not physically harmed, but—” She stopped.

“I see,” said Emery. She came properly into the room and began, after casting a careful glance at Cassandra, to pick up the strewn books and papers. “Will you go to her?”

Cassandra, who had begun to lose control of her expression and had turned to look out the window to hide it, turned back and stared at her. “How can I do that? There is so much that I am needed for here. I am—”

“Vérité can manage without you for a time,” said Emery. She set the last of the papers on the table. “Would you like me to come back in a little while, when you are organized?”

“Do not coddle me!” said Cassandra violently, feeling rage rise again through her uncertainty.

“All right,” said Emery, and pulled a chair up to the table. “Then hear my report. There has been word…”

Cassandra was able to concentrate, though barely. But later that morning she told others that she did not wish to be disturbed, and set to write letters.

* * *

_**Seeker Pentaghast to Sister Leliana** _

28 Guardian

Thank you for letting me know what happened. Please keep me informed, but do not read the Inquisitor’s mail to see if you need to do so. Assume that it is necessary to tell me what is going on, and in common decency give us some privacy. And do not read my letters either. You owe us this courtesy, Leliana.

Yes, I am angry, so angry I cannot think of what to say, so I will not try. Just—please look after her.

Cassandra

* * *

_**Seeker Pentaghast to Inquisitor Trevelyan** _

28 Guardian

Oh my beloved,

I am so sorry to hear this terrible news. My heart aches for you. Leliana sent her own letter with yours, so I know a little more of what happened. I am so angry with her that I don’t know what to say.

I think that she will be chastened now, and careful not to cause more harm. Trust her and Josephine to deal with this mess between them. If anyone can recover your arm, they can; you know their skills.

Please, write to me when you are able to do so. You do not need to speak of the details of what happened if you do not want to, but I will listen if you do. Please tell me what you are thinking. I know that you keep things to yourself when you are wounded, for I do the same, but please do not hide yourself from me now.

I want to come to you, but I do not want to set out without knowing where you will be, and I am afraid of missing you if you leave Antiva City. The traveling will take a little time, but I can leave as soon as I have word from you.

Please reply as soon as you can.

I do not know how to say how much I love you, how much I want to hold you and never let you go.

Cassandra

* * *

**Inquisitor Trevelyan to Seeker Pentaghast**

5 Drakonis

Dearest Cassandra,

I have received your letter and will try to write more so that you do not worry. The love and caring in your words means so much to me.

I am shaken but I will do better soon. Josephine is arranging that I shall go with Leliana and Yvette to the Montilyet estate. She says that her mother will coddle me as should be done. I do not really want to meet strangers right now but you know how Josephine is. I suppose it will be all right in the long run.

Do not come. I do not know how long I will be in Antiva. Josephine and Leliana say that things will be resolved soon, so all will be done with long before you could possibly arrive. Right now I want to leave as soon as is possible. You are needed in Vérité, and I will be fine. I am only shaken. If it was more serious I would send for you, but you are better where you are. Only send me letters so I have different things to think about, my mind falls into patterns I don’t like.

I am tired now, I will give this to Leliana and go to bed. I will write more from the country estate.

All my love,

Trev

* * *

_**Sister Leliana to Seeker Pentaghast** _

15 Drakonis

Cassandra,

I am writing this from the Montilyet country estate. I will be returning to the city tomorrow, but I have brought several ravens with me so that communication between the estate and my friends in the city will be easy. Do not hesitate to write: my friends will forward letters between you and Trevelyan immediately.

We came here two days ago and were welcomed warmly by Josephine’s family. They are aware that the Inquisitor’s arm was stolen, but not of the details. They are treating her with great kindness.

Trevelyan’s mood is swinging between a kind of frantic surety that all will be well in the end and a morose conviction that it will not. I hope that the calmness of the estate will help her to settle.

Josephine is working now to plan her movement against her enemies. It is my intention to bring Trevelyan back to the city when the final pieces are in place, so that she may be involved in the final denouement; I think that it is the helplessness that she feels that is the worst of it, and action may counter that. You may be confident that I shall take every precaution, and she will not be placed in danger.

I enclose a letter from Josephine. Be assured that neither of us will rest until this matter is settled.

Nightingale

* * *

_**Letter from Josephine Montilyet to Seeker Pentaghast** _

15 Drakonis

My dear Cassandra,

I must begin by apologizing for the harm that has come to Trevelyan while she has been a guest in my home. I cannot begin to say how much this has distressed and angered me. I have taken steps to ensure that the security of the Montilyet estates in both the city and country is increased so that it is not possible for such a thing to happen again.

This goes beyond what is considered generally acceptable in Antivan disputes, as it involves an outsider, but not so far as to sink the reputation or the Rios family entirely. I imagine that they saw it as a serious warning to me of what might befall my family if I act against them. But I also think they do not understand that I already consider this to be a direct blow against my family: although we do not share ties of blood I think of both of you as sisters. I do not think my enemies realize quite what I am prepared to do to protect those I consider family, but they are about to find out.

I will make their mistake very clear to them. I had hoped to settle this conflict through negotiation, but now it is my intention to hire others to act as my hands in the matter, and to forego diplomatic solutions. My resources are not endless, but they are certainly more than those of my enemy, and I will use all of them if necessary. This is a matter of affection as well as honour.

Leliana will return soon and we will plan the specifics of our actions with those I hire to execute them. In the meantime Trevelyan is with my family in the country; my parents will smother her with attention, I am sure.

Again, I am deeply sorry for the harm that came to Trevelyan. It will be avenged, this I swear.

Yours affectionately,

Josephine

* * *

_**Seeker Pentaghast to Inquisitor Trevelyan** _

10 Drakonis

Beloved,

You say that I should not come, but I do not agree. Please, give me some guidance as to where you will be and for how long, so that I may come to you, if only to settle my own mind. There is nothing at Vérité that cannot do without me.

All my love,

Cassandra

* * *

_**Seeker Pentaghast to Sister Leliana** _

10 Drakonis

Tell me what is going on. I have had a most disturbing letter from Trevelyan. I would come to Antiva, but she has asked me not to, saying that all will be settled long before I can arrive. But she does not sound like herself, and I do not know whether to obey her in this.

* * *

_**Sister Leliana to Seeker Pentaghast** _

18 Drakonis

We will move against Josephine’s enemies soon, and if all goes as planned there is no way that you can be here before we do. Trevelyan is shaken and suffering, but I am confident that this action will restore her. Stay in Vérité, and I will make sure you are informed as to what happens as soon as possible.

* * *

_**Letter from Inquisitor Trevelyan to Cassandra Pentaghast** _

13 Drakonis

Dearest Cassandra,

I am writing this from the Montilyet estate, where I have been sent to stay out of harm’s way. There has been almost constant activity since our arrival, and I am only now alone in my room, and it is past midnight. I am still far too roused to sleep, so I shall write to you instead.

First, to settle your mind, I am feeling better. There is no need for you to come to me, truly. I am certain that this will all be resolved, and long before you would be able to get here. If the arm cannot be recovered I know that Dagna will make another one, and by now she probably has new ideas, so really, its loss is of little consequence. It was only the shock of the loss that disturbed me.

I travelled here by carriage with a contingent of guards and Leliana and Yvette, who chattered the entire way. It is in some ways rather like travelling with Sera. No, that is not true; Sera does go for long periods without saying anything, and what she says often has a point. Yvette’s chatter is much less meaningful, or perhaps it is designed to seem so. There are kernels of sense in it, and she is on the whole kind, if sometimes thoughtless.

The journey was some four or five hours, mostly through beautiful rolling vineyards on the cliffs above the ocean. We arrived early in the afternoon to be welcomed by Josephine’s parents. Lord Montilyet is tall and slim, with greying hair and a flamboyant air. Lady Montilyet is shorter and rounder, with a much calmer manner. They greeted Leliana as a daughter and gave me a most effusive welcome, as if I too was a member of their family—Lord Montilyet embraced me and kissed me dramatically on both cheeks; Lady Montilyet’s embrace held less drama but a great deal of goodwill, and both were much appreciated. Certainly I have never received such a demonstrative welcome from my own family!

We were then seated on a terrace and brought cold drinks, a kind of spiced wine with fruit. I am not certain that I have ever had it before; I really think that I would have remembered, but perhaps not? The weather, being spring, is not so warm as it will become, but it was still very pleasant, and to be honest I think that I would not be so comfortable later in the season.

I was then shown to my room, which is lovely, open and airy and light, and given an opportunity to settle myself and bathe. The walls are thick and the windows are larger than I am accustomed to, and it seems from the placement of the cushions that Antivans spend a great deal of time sitting in window nooks. There is of course glass, as one would expect in such a fine house, but the windows and shutters are designed to open wide. The house is built so that the windows catch whatever breeze there is from the sea. I expect that this helps keep the home cool in summer, but I could not help contrasting it with Skyhold, where catching cool breezes is certainly not a desired effect.

When I emerged an hour or so later, Lord Montilyet offered to show me around the estate. It’s very beautiful, and full of art, paintings and tapestries and sculptures, and he told me the stories behind them and their creators. Some works are by Lord Montilyet himself, who has some reputation as an artist. Yvette has spoken of his salons, saying dismissively that it her mother who has the head for business. I think that Josephine takes after her mother, and Yvette takes after her father. Art seems to be the one thing that Yvette takes very seriously, though she attempts to disguise that fact.

Josephine’s brothers Laurent and Antoine had been out in the vineyards and returned late in the day, when I was introduced to them. Both are handsome men, well-favoured, sturdily built, and dark from the sun. Laurent attempted to flirt with me, but I saw Yvette whispering to him later, and afterwards he desisted. I think that even the suggestion of a Seeker’s ire is likely enough to dissuade most suitors for my interest!

Dinner was excellent, the main dish being a fish stew that is an Antivan specialty, and the conversation was very lively. The Montilyets are passionate about their estate, and their business, and their personal interests, and violent arguments about the details of all of these things are apparently part of the normal family conversational give and take. Leliana was an active participant in these discussions as well. I scarcely had to say a word, which was probably a good thing, as I had begun to feel very tired and stupid.

Josephine’s parents are exquisitely polite, and have not asked about the loss of Dagna’s arm. Yvette is less sensitive to such niceties and began to speak of it, but her mother quickly said, “Yvette, this is the Inquisitor’s story to tell, and if she does not wish to tell us all the details of it, it is not your place to do so for her.” Yvette appeared more quashed than I have ever seen her, which is not to say much, but I am certain her suppression will not last.

I appreciated Lady Montilyet’s intercession; it was not that I minded Yvette talking about it, exactly, but I did not wish to participate in such discussions and on the whole would prefer that if they must occur, they should occur without me.

Leliana accompanied me to my room when I retired, and we spoke for a little longer. She explained the general intent of Josephine’s plans. I’m certain they will bear fruit and I’ll have Dagna’s arm back soon, or if that can’t happen, at least all will be settled.

My eyelids have finally begun to droop, and I think I may finally be able to sleep. I shall set this aside and pick it up again tomorrow.

…

Leliana has returned to Antiva City. She says that she will send for me soon, and tells me not to lose hope. I’m sure she is right.

I haven’t slept well since we arrived here. My nights are still full of disturbing dreams. I think that today I will stay abed, as I don’t seem to have the energy to rise. I asked the roomservant to make my apologies to Lady Montilyet. She came to my room afterwards. She said I was welcome to rest and she would have food sent. It’s a relief.

I wish I could sleep properly. I doze, and can’t tell if I’ve slept or not. At night I wake over and over again from dreams, and sometimes I dream that I’ve woken and haven’t. Sometimes I wake and think that I haven’t. It’s too confusing. I can’t do anything.

20 Drakonis

I spent three days abed after the last I wrote, but now I am up and feeling better. I think that the events in Antiva City had exhausted me more than I realized.

Truly the Montilyets are very patient with me. Servants brought food at the proper times, though I could not eat much. It’s not as if I was being so active that I needed it, and I found the smell of it made me queasy. Lady Montilyet came by my room each day and spoke to me for a little, I think to ensure that I was still alive, but otherwise I was left alone, which suited me perfectly. This morning she must have ascertained that I was feeling a little better, for she asked if I would like to bathe, and I found that I wished to very much. She had the servants prepare a bath for me, and I did feel better afterwards, and was able to eat a proper breakfast.

I ventured downstairs afterwards and found the house strangely quiet. A servant had been watching for me, and asked me to come to Lady Montilyet, who was in her office. She asked if I felt better, and I said I did.

“I am planning to ride through the vineyards today to review some projects,” she said then, “and would be honoured to have your company if you would like to see their workings.” It seemed a good idea—I felt stultified and thought that I wanted air—and so I agreed.

The ride was very pleasant, and took the better part of the day. I rode with Lady Montilyet and a number of guards. She did not say anything, but I suspect that the guards were for my benefit.

One thinks of vineyards as quiet, pastoral places, but they are far busier than I expected. The Montilyet estates are not so large as some, but still they are very expansive. There was a great deal going on. Some workers were repairing the trellises that hold the vines, which were beginning to show new shoots. Others were working the soil in some fashion around the vines; Lady Montilyet explained what the purpose was, but I’ve forgotten the details, only that the work was intended to protect the plants and promote growth.

Laurent was overseeing the planting of new vines in a large field. This was an experiment, Lady Montilyet said, with a new variety of grapes, something uncommon that they hoped would produce a particularly fine wine.

We stopped midday to eat with Laurent and the planters, who were courteous but did not seem overawed by either myself or Lady Montilyet. They are skilled workers, well aware of their value in a country where winemaking is so important, and respectfully treated because of it. The meal was plain, bread and cheese and wine, but very good; the riding had made me hungry and I was hard pressed not to take a whole loaf for myself.

I haven’t mentioned the sheep, and must do so; they roam through the vineyards, under the control of shepherds and trained dogs, and keep the weeds and grasses down. They aren’t the Fereldan breed, being much quicker, smaller, and hairier. (The dogs, I mean; the sheep are perfectly normal sheep.) I asked what the dogs could do, and a shepherd gave a demonstration; it was truly impressive in the way that they could gather and drive the sheep to shouted and whistled commands.

We returned to the house in the late afternoon. I thanked Lady Montiyet for her kindness in showing me around, and she said that it was a pleasure to do so. “My dear,” she said, “our home is yours. You have done so much for this family, and I know that Josephine holds great affection for you. You will always be welcome here, and must treat it as your home.” I stuttered somewhat incoherently, for it was clear that she really meant what she said. I feel like a fraud, for honestly I have not done so much for the Montilyets. She simply smiled and changed the subject, saying that Yvette and Lord Montilyet would not be to supper, as they had gone to visit friends to see new paintings that had been recently purchased, and that both Laurent and Antoine were dining with friends as well, so it would be a much quieter meal than usual.

It was just myself and Lady Montilyet at dinner, as she said, but it was very pleasant. Lady Montilyet asked me to tell some tales of Josephine at Skyhold, as her daughter was “not entirely forthcoming” about her time there. So I told a number of stories of how Josephine had saved the day, and made it clear that the Inquisition could not have managed without her—all quite true, though Josephine would never admit it.

I still feel tired and unsettled, but it’s better than it was. Today was a good day, and I shall try to hold it in my mind as I go to sleep.

There will probably be bad days to come, but don’t worry for me; these dark moods come and go and are only something I must endure for a little time. There’s no need for true concern, and no need for you to come to me. Please trust me in this. I want to work through this myself; I must, to know that I can. I want you, but I know it would be too easy to rely on you if you were here. I must do this alone.

27 Drakonis

Yesterday Yvette told me that Josephine is hiring the Crows to assist in her action against the Rios family. But I cannot imagine that this means that she is planning assassinations—this is Josephine, after all. I don’t know what to think.

I think I would like to see assassinations.

Today I’m spending the day in my room, I don’t care to see anyone. I didn’t sleep well, and it’s raining and dark, which suits my mood. I can’t think of what to say, but maybe writing will help to quiet the voices in my head. I don’t like the things I am thinking. I don’t want to think. I tried to doze, but every time I do I can’t really sleep, but begin to fall into dreams, and they aren’t pleasant ones. I wish you were here to distract me.

I was going to say that I wish I wasn’t here, but really it doesn’t matter. The Montilyets are kind and they leave me be when I can’t bear people. I don’t think there’s anywhere I want to be right now, save by your side.

I just wish I could think of things that were not angry. I try, but they twist and turn and suddenly I’m imagining conversations that have never happened and never will happen, events that I hope will never happen. I wish I could settle for a time without this cloud of fear. I don’t even know what I’m afraid of, there’s nothing. And my dreams—oh Maker, my dreams are so strange now. Sometimes they’re frightening, full of blood and death, but sometimes they’re simply strange, full of people who say things that I can’t quite understand. Those dreams aren’t so bad, compared to the ones that are grim and dark. I find myself longing for them, for they’re so much better than the world of death and destruction that I too often fall into.

And now instead of dreaming I’m writing about the things I dream. So much for distraction. There is no point to this. This is

7 Cloudreach

I am much better today. I’m sorry for the things I last wrote, and how they will likely distress you when you read them. But I’m fine now. Lady Montilyet has watched over me; when I couldn’t bring myself to rise from my bed she came for a little while each day and sat with me. I would have hated it, but beyond a few words of greeting she didn’t require me to speak, and only sat with me in silence for a time, doing some embroidery. It was very kind of her, and I found I didn’t mind her presence.

Don’t worry, my love. I have these dark days, but I always come out of them. They only oppress me now because recent events have been so upsetting.

I’ve been talking to Lord Montilyet and Yvette about art. I confess that I don’t understand a tenth of what they say about what new artists are doing today. But they’ve tried to explain, and that tenth is better than I have ever achieved before, so that’s a victory of sorts. And some of what they showed me is very beautiful, and some if not beautiful is very interesting when you understand what the artist was trying to so, so there is that. There was one piece that Lord Montilyet had that I think you would like; a painting of a warrior, almost invisible in gloom, surrounded by chaos, but the little picked out with light was stern and unyielding and still standing against all odds. It had a stillness to it that I liked.

Yvette has been very busy, though she didn’t mention her activities to her father, only telling me privately. In the end I had decided that it would be worth it to free the young artist from the brothels, and provided funds to do it. Yvette handled the whole thing with a level of expertise that confirmed my suspicions: she is almost as adept at manipulating people as her sister. She first approached the boy, and ascertained what he wanted to do, without giving any hint that it might be possible. She then approached the brothel’s owner with the greatest possible degree of flightiness, so that he became convinced that the boy held no real talent at all, and that she was a foolish young woman who wanted to do good and could be taken advantage of, and so she was able to negotiate the purchase at a considerably lower price than would have been possible if he had thought the child really skilled. So the boy now has his papers and is legally no longer bound. She had also found an artist, an older woman who has a good reputation and former apprentices who speak well of her, to take him on. She is not known as a daring artist who explores new territory, but as one who has a great deal of knowledge of traditional styles and techniques, and who can provide an excellent grounding that others can build on.

She says the boy is ecstatic in his new place. So I think it will all work out very well. I have asked that my part in the whole thing not be made public, so the boy and the world in general will know only that an anonymous benefactor provided the funds for his apprenticeship.

Yvette’s air of cheerful self-satisfaction at the resolution of this adventure is really quite charming. She says that she will tell her father in the end, for she admits that she is far too pleased with herself not to do so, but she plans to try to hold off until the boy first exhibits his work, which he will do when his mentor has a show of her own work and that of her students, which is apparently an annual event. She says that she will purchase one of his pieces to send to me in Vérité. I am not certain

I have been interrupted—Leliana has come. Josephine is beginning to make her move, and they ask me to return to Antiva City. I will send this letter now and then pack in haste. I hope that I will be able to send another letter very soon. I am as nervous as a recruit preparing for their first battle.

Oh my love, you are my heart, be my love always.

Trev


	17. Retribution

_**Sister Leliana to Seeker Pentaghast** _

10 Cloudreach

Cassandra,

All is well: Trevelyan’s arm has been recovered, and the Rios family is no longer a threat. I have also been worried for her, but with this settled I am confident that she is once more on solid ground and that your fears for her may be set aside.

The Inquisitor is writing you, but she does not know all that happened behind the scenes, and so I am enclosing this note with hers so that you will have a full understanding.

When it became clear how the Rios family intended to destroy the Montilyets and take advantage of their fall to promote their own interests, Josephine became angry, but not so angry as she became when Trevelyan was attacked. Having made the error of judgement that resulted in the offense to the Inquisitor, I agreed that the matter would be dealt with in the manner that seemed best to her. But Maker, if I ever thought my love to be a gentle soul, I have been disabused of that idea.

We agreed that my attentions would be focused on finding the missing arm, and after some effort I was indeed able to discover it. In the meantime, Josephine hired the Crows to gather information about the Rios family’s business activities, thinking that a family prepared to advance through attacking others rather than honest business dealings would have even more secrets worth knowing than those I had already uncovered. She also asked Isabela to intercept Rios shipments where possible, and to search for incriminating evidence. Isabela was more than happy to help, and Josephine’s rivals suffered a number of unexpected losses.

Well! Josephine was certainly right in her suspicions, and it took surprisingly little time to be proved so. I suppose that Eduardo Rios Delgado’s arrogance made him careless. Isabela, with the assistance of some friends, took a small fleet of merchanters and found goods clearly marked with the insignia of other merchants who had had their ships taken by pirates. This confirmed what we had already learned from the documents previously obtained from the warehouse, and made it clear that the activity of the family extended even further than we had proven. Isabela had the shipments delivered to their intended destinations with letters of explanation, though not without much complaining to Josephine. She said that it was a great shame to let such plunder go without benefitting from it, and used her complaints to extort more payment from Josephine, but my love is as good at that dance as the admiral, and in the end both were satisfied. I suspect that some of the finest wines may have not made it to their destination as intended, but I’m sure the Rios family’s reavers had removed them before Isabela ever saw them.

The Crows uncovered a great deal of useful information, none of it complimentary to the Rios family. It was not just that their pirates attacked merchanters at sea; they had also built a small army of thieves and brigands who fell upon caravans travelling by land, which is far less usual. Indeed, it began to seem that the family made no money from their own dealings, only from plundering others. Their “army” was much larger than usual for a family of their resources, because they had been allowing their mercenaries to take a cut from all goods stolen, and were able therefore to maintain a larger force. And it turned out as well that they had been systematically cheating on contracts in Orlais and Ferelden and the Marches. Really, if one is going to keep a set of alternate books for financial dealings, they should be better hidden.

Once all this information had been gathered, Josephine was in a position to take action. We went after the Inquisitor’s arm first, not wanting to chance its loss or destruction. Eduardo Rios Delgado had kept it as a sort of trophy in his rooms, so it was merely a question of infiltrating the estate to retrieve it while avoiding the protections he had set in place. I took the Inquisitor with me for this task; I know that this may not please you, but Cassandra, she has had too much happen to her without the chance to defend or act for herself. It was important that she come.

After the arm was retrieved there was no reason to hold back on the execution of Josephine’s plan, and its implementation is now complete. Eduardo Rios Delgado is dead by his own hand, or that of a relative or an enemy; it is unclear which, and does not matter. The family’s reputation is destroyed, and they will find it difficult if not impossible to find any who will trade with them. The new head of family is someone with common sense, who is negotiating a client position with the Montilyets, which means that Josephine will be able to keep an eye on them. There is a chance, that way, that they may rebuild, but it depends on Montilyet goodwill, and they know it.

I have not given you the details of the denouement; I will leave that to Trevelyan. Rest assured that she is safe now, and all has been resolved in the most satisfactory of ways.

She plans to go to Denerim soon, as the arm took a little damage during its captivity and she wishes Dagna to repair it. Josephine and I have asked her to stay a little longer, but I think it unlikely; she is set on returning the mechanism to normal as soon as possible.

Please be sure to burn this letter after you read it. I do not generally put so much into writing, but I owed it to you and Trevelyan to be sure that you are thoroughly informed.

Nightingale

* * *

_**Inquisitor Trevelyan to Seeker Pentaghast** _

11 Cloudreach

Dearest Cassandra,

It is done. All has been resolved, and I have Dagna’s arm back. I’m exhausted, but I’ll try to explain as much as I can tonight before I forget anything. I know only the barest outline of what happened behind the scenes, but Leliana said she’ll tell you about that.

For my part, what I know is that Leliana came with a squad of guards to bring me back to Antiva City. The servants packed my belongings while I took my leave of the Montilyets and attempted to thank them for their kindness. I’ve been a poor guest, I’m sure, but Lady Montilyet seemed genuinely affected by my departure. She hugged and kissed me and said, “Inquisitor, you are always welcome here, and I will be terribly offended if you do not visit again, and often. I know that Josephine will have you more often than we do, but please make this your home when you can.” I confess that I was half overcome at her words. I would like to go back with you to visit them again, if we can, when I am more myself.

Saying goodbye to the others was less difficult. I don’t know Laurent and Antoine well, though I like them. I felt more of an attachment to Lord Montilyet and Yvette, but both are so dramatic in their passions that the extravagance of their farewells settled mine, if you see what I mean. So by the time we actually rode out I was able to do so calmly.

We rode hard, this time on horseback rather than by carriage, and likely were much quicker in returning than in coming to the estate, though I remember little of that journey. Josephine greeted me at the Montilyet estate with an air of satisfaction that had some very deadly undertones. You would recognize this, I am sure: it was the manner our Ambassador held when she had resolved some complex diplomatic work in the most satisfactory manner possible, and managed to substantially disadvantage some enemy in the process. I found it thoroughly heartening.

I don’t know exactly what she had accomplished in my absence, and there was no time to speak of it. They’ve said they will explain it all to me tomorrow, and Leliana has said that she’ll send a letter to you with mine that will give you the details, so I’ll leave that to her.

We had returned to the city in such a hurry because they had discovered where Dagna’s arm was held, and established a plan for retrieving it, and for much more besides. The recovery of the arm was to happen early that night. Leliana said it was held by the heir of the Rios family, who would be otherwise engaged that evening at a dinner and ball, and that their estate would be more vulnerable than at any other time. “I will recover it with the aid of a couple of friends,” she said, “and I would like you to come with me.”

So it was that we set out an hour after dark, myself and Leliana and two of her friends, dressed all in dark clothes and made to look like servants returning from some errand. After a little time traveling on the streets we ducked into a narrow, dark alley, and from there by means of architectural features and drainpipes and in my case the assistance of a rope we ascended to a roof, and travelled that way thereafter. So you see that my escapades in Kirkwall were not wasted. I must say, though, that although sobriety may have made me safer in some ways, it did nothing at all for my confidence when we had to cross from one roof to another.

Eventually we came to the Rios estate, and made the last roof crossing with great care. I don’t think I have ever seen anyone who can move as silently as Leliana, and you know that I’m not so bad at it myself. From the roof it was a simple matter to reach a balcony that Leliana had scouted, and to pick the lock of the doors.

It was all very easy, in the end. There were protections, but they were simple to deal with. Leliana led us to the heir’s quarters, an extremely large room crowded with expensive and ostentatious items. Really, one would expect less in a royal court. It was loot, I must assume, from the family’s predations.

And amongst all the precious items, Dagna’s arm, placed on the mantle over the hearth. I was as quick as I could be to strap it on, and then we went out the way we had come and speedily back to the Montilyet estate.

But the evening was not over. Josephine was waiting, dressed in the most elegant and extravagant of gowns. “Hurry!” she said. “We will be fashionably late to the ball, but I do not want to be so late that we cannot make an entrance!”

I protested that attending a ball was that last thing I wanted to do, but Leliana laughed at my objections and said that I should trust her when she said that this was a fête that I would enjoy. And so once again I put on my formal wear.

By the time I was ready Leliana had changed into a gown as well, and was as elegant and collected and beautiful as Josephine. Maker, I don’t know how she does it, changing so quickly from a plain and unremarkable servant to a woman who will draw all attention by her beauty and comportment. I swear that magic must be involved.

The ball was held at the estate of an important merchant family, and hosted by the current head of family, Bartolomeo Valisti, in honor of the visit of Duke Valere Fontaine of Orlais. The party was well underway when we were announced. I didn’t know Eduardo Rios Delgado by sight, but Leliana told me that his face changed when he saw me. He wasn’t quite certain what had happened, I think; my arm was covered with clothing and a glove, and could have been a replacement made locally. But Leliana told me a little later that he had called for one of his guards and sent them away. By that time she had told me who he was, and so when the guard returned I was watching, and saw his expression darken. He stared at me then, and I gave him my very best smile, the one you have said cannot be described using polite language, and went on to be introduced to the Duke.

Rios didn’t leave; it would have been inexcusably rude to do so, as the main event of the evening, a performance by a well-known quartet and the formal celebration of the Duke’s visit, had not yet occurred. But he looked distracted.

That performance was held and applauded with great enthusiasm. And then Valisti made a short speech welcoming the Duke, and the Duke made a short speech praising his hospitality. All as would be expected.

And then the Duke said, “I am greatly pleased to make the acquaintance of so many illustrious people from Antiva—and beyond. I have not previously had the honour of meeting Inquisitor Trevelyan. And of course, she is accompanied by both the former seneschal and the Ambassador of the Inquisition as well. Lady Josephine, we have never met, but have occasionally corresponded over business; it is a great pleasure to make your acquaintance. Sister Leliana, I am delighted to meet you. A little bird tells me that you have a wonderful singing voice. Could you be convinced to give us the pleasure of hearing it?”

Leliana protested with great modesty, as etiquette requires, and then allowed herself to be persuaded. She conferred with the quartet for a moment, and then stood to sing.

She first sang a short piece by a well-known Orlesian composer, a complex song that shows off the singer’s skills, and certainly her voice was excellent to my ears, being strong and clear and beautifully sweet and natural, and not over-trained into artificiality the way some singers are. Have you ever heard her sing? I’d known she had a beautiful voice from that time in the retreat from Haven when everyone sang, but after the first line or two it had been buried in the voices of all the others. And after that, of course, she would no more sing than tell stories, and I’d forgotten all about it. Anyway, returning to the subject at hand, after the applause faded they played the introduction to a piece from a comic opera, and she began to sing again.

You know I’m not a person who likes opera, though this piece was so familiarly known that even I recognized the tune. But eventually I heard several people around me gasp, and realized that the words she was singing were not the words from the opera, but a kind of parody. And then I paid more attention.

The plot of the opera, I’m told, involves a story of pirates and romance and pining and undying love, just the sort of thing that you and I would adore were it not for the singing. In this particular aria, the Pirate King brags to the woman he has captured for ransom of all he has done, and it’s indeed all most virile and manly.

The revised version was considerably less so. The revised version featured a cowardly pirate king who went by the name Eduardo, who had certain affected mannerisms of speaking that were familiar to many of those attending, and referenced events in common knowledge. It was, in short, a clear stand-in for Eduardo Rios Delgado. The song showed the pirate’s pride in his own cowardice and the way he preyed on other pirates and cheated all and sundry. He called them fools for being taken in by his name and position, saying that they were poor sheep to be fleeced for their wool by a cunning wolf. And he described some predations that were very specific in their details, explaining exactly how his men in disguise had thieved from others and killed the victims in order to prevent any hint of the truth escaping.

(This is something that Antivan pirates rarely do, I was told by Isabela; they may fight each other and the merchants they prey on, but although some may die in battle they do not generally execute those they overcome unless there is some very good reason for it, because it would cause the others to unite against them. And Josephine tells me that merchants are very similar, in that certain actions to gain advantage against each other are accepted as normal and to be expected, but there is an unspoken limit beyond which they usually don’t go. Rios had crossed that line, and done so very clearly.)

The recounting of the pirate’s scandalous behaviour and his arrogant pride in it was sung in the most amusing and beautiful way imaginable. But before Leliana finished there was muttering in the back of the room, and Rios had gone stark white. By the time she had finished he had gone. I hear that he is dead now; Leliana says he may have taken his own life, or been killed by his heir, or by someone the family cheated. He’d been fool enough to steal shipments from the Valistis, who have strong connections to the Crows. I find that I don’t care which it is who killed him. I’m glad he is dead. I only wish that I could have been the one to strike the blow.

I don’t think that I will stay any longer in Antiva than I must. Josephine and Leliana will ask me to stay longer, I’m certain, but it’s time for me to travel again. Dagna’s arm was in generally good condition when it was retrieved, but it had not been kindly treated, and there are some parts of the mechanism that don’t work quite as they should. I will travel to Denerim on a Montilyet merchant ship, and visit Dagna there and ask her to fix it.

And now I’ll go to bed and sleep a most satisfied sleep, I hope. By the time you receive this I’ll probably be on my way south. Send letters to me through Dagna or Sera, I’m sure that either one will know where I am.

I love you, Cassandra. My heart is yours, no matter where I am.

Trev

* * *

Trev had her arm back, and was safe. Thank the Maker.

But the fear, the twisting in her guts, had become constant; she could not see a raven fly to the rookery, a small tower clinging to the outside of the main hold, without finding herself unable to swallow. The last messages from Leliana and Trev had reassured her as to Trev's safety, and certainly her lover had sounded much more herself, but they had not freed her from anxiety’s grip, or from the desperate, furious anger and pain the fear provoked.

Trev had risen and sunk in her letters, and when she had sunk it had been into precipitous depths of despair and apathy, and Cassandra had not been there to help, and Trev had not wanted her. Trev had not wanted her. _Why do you not want me?_ she wrote. _Why do you seek to keep me away? I do not understand. I wanted to come to fight for you against your enemies. Why do you refuse me?_

No. She could not say that. She crossed it out. Trev did not want to be an appendage. Trev needed to show that she was not an appendage. Not someone to be rescued, but someone with agency. Leliana had come very close to coming out and saying just that. Of course Trev would not want Cassandra to come to her rescue. Of course.

_I understand that you do not want to be rescued. But the comfort and alliance of friends, of lovers, is not rescue. It is love. I do not seek to hold you. I only wanted to help. You allowed Josephine and Leliana to help you, why would you not allow your lover to do so?_

No. She crossed it out.

_I cannot bear to be kept from your side when you are suffering, to be told to leave all assistance to others. I cannot bear to think that there is nothing I can do to help you, even if it is only to be there with you to hold you. It is not reasonable to keep me away._

No.

She put the quill down and went out to walk the battlements. There was a cold wind, a wind that hurt. That was as it should be.

* * *

_**Seeker Pentaghast to Inquisitor Trevelyan** _

19 Cloudreach

Beloved,

I am sending this letter to Dagna in Denerim to wait for you. With luck, sending it to Dagna means that Sera will be less likely to read it before you do.

I am so glad that your arm has been recovered. I cannot imagine the relief this must be for you. I am certain that Dagna will be able to repair it so that it is like new, or even better.

I have been so worried by your recent letters. It was terrible to hear that you had become a target, when I was not there to stand beside you against your enemies. It was not that I had no confidence in you; I know that you are capable of protecting yourself, and Leliana and Josephine, when roused, are formidable allies. In truth it was your dark moods that frightened me most, that you seemed so lost and hopeless when you fell into their depths. You told me not to come to you, but had things not happened so quickly in the end, I would have done so against your wishes, if only to hold you when things were darkest for you. I cannot and will not apologize for this.

There is so much more I want to say, that I have tried to say, but I have given up and recopied this, for I do not know how to find the words. Only, please, please do not ask me not to be with you when you are suffering.

There is a ship leaving tomorrow early, and I will send this short message with the captain; it should reach Denerim before you do. The roads have opened and so there are new things happening here in Vérité, but I will save those for my next letter.

All my love,

Cassandra


	18. Denerim

_**Letter from Inquisitor Trevelyan to Seeker Pentaghast** _

15 Cloudreach

Dearest Cassandra,

I have learned more over the last few days. The Rios family has fallen into the hands of the heir, Adriana Rios Montero, and she will certainly have her work cut out for her. Josephine says she has far more sense than her father, and had distanced herself from him some years ago. He threatened to disinherit her, but had never done so, as she was his only child and he was jealous of his branch of the family’s power. Josephine says that she has offered the Rios family a client position, and the new heir will likely accept it.

She won’t have much choice. No one is likely to trust them now, or do business with them: not the other Antivan merchants, not the Orlesians and Fereldans they traded with. One of the stories in the song was about cheating Duke Valere Fontaine, and he will certainly carry the tale of this back with him, for Josephine’s triumph rivals the best victories of the Great Game. And the story will spread because of the scandal and drama.

It’s a great fall for an ambitious family. There will be a call from all sides for recompense, claims that would ruin them utterly, but with the help of the Montilyets they may be able to negotiate something that will leave them with at least the possibility of rebuilding.

It’s a very satisfactory ending to this whole horrible business. I’m somewhat appalled by how pleased it makes me. I’m feeling better than I have in weeks, though still a little shaken. But I think that I’ll be able to find my footing now. I sail for Denerim tomorrow morning.

21 Cloudreach

The journey south has been entirely uneventful, and so far I have little to report. The weather has been fine and we’ve made good time. I spend much of my time on deck dozing, as I’ve been sleeping so badly recently. My dreams have been better these last nights and the pain in my arm has faded a little.

I found that Martin Duval, the House of Repose commander who works for Josephine, would be travelling to Denerim as well, and for a moment seriously considered waiting for another ship, but I told myself this was foolish. In the end I’m glad that I didn’t wait, for I was able to speak with him a little and learn more of Orlesian assassins and how they are used in the Game. He did not, of course, tell me of any current or recent specific actions or give confidential information, but he explained a little of the history of his House and how it was both similar to and different from the Crows, subtleties that I had not been aware of before. Assassins have far more rules and policies than I was aware of, though I suppose this makes sense when one faction may be set against another in the service of warring nobles.

We’ve encountered no difficulties, no attacks, though we have seen unknown ships at a distance that approached and then turned away. When I commented on the ease of our passage, Duval smiled. “Lady Josephine Montilyet,” he said, “has made it very clear that she is not to be trifled with. I have no doubt that the story of the Rios family has already begun to spread widely. The Rivaini pirates will not leave our ships alone forever, but that they do so now is a signal of respect.”

So there is something good to come out of this for Josephine, at least. I am glad.

24 Cloudreach

I’ve met with Dagna, who gave me your letter and a warm if somewhat distracted welcome. Sera was off on some business, so I haven’t seen her yet. Dagna took the arm and hmm’ed at it, and became even more distracted, and said that I should leave it with her, she’ll send word to the inn when it’s ready.

And so I’ve returned to my quarters to read your letter and reply. I’ve taken rooms at an inn called the Star and Anchor, which the sailors tell me is clean and reasonably honest. It’s somewhat shabby, but they were right about the cleanliness, and the food is good. I want time to myself, away from the notice of others, after everything that happened in Antiva, so it suits me. I’m feeling somewhat shabby myself, and I don’t intend to advertise my presence here to the local gentry.

Leliana has friends here, of course—I think you are in contact with Chandler?—and so ravens are available for my use and I’ll send this as soon as I’ve written a little more. If you send letters to Chandler while I am here he’ll have them delivered to me at the Star and Anchor.

Oh, my love. You may not be able to find the words you want, but I think I see what lies behind those you have sent, and they make my heart ache for you and fill me with warmth all at the same time. I love you so much. I miss you so much.

It’s not that I don’t want you—I do, and far too much. But I feel as if I’m shifting and changing, and I need to see it through without your help. I don’t know what I’m turning into, but it is something, and that is more than it has recently been. Please believe me when I say that you are my anchor, even when you’re not with me, and no changes can ever break the cord that runs between our hearts.

And please—write and tell me of the things that are happening at Vérité, even the least important, the everyday things. I feel like I’m missing so much that is ordinary in your life, in my life, and I want to return to it. When I leave Denerim I’m not certain where I shall go, but I think it likely that I’ll begin to swing round through Ferelden and then Orlais and then make my way back to your side. By then I hope that I’ll know what my changes mean. I want to come home to you so very badly.

I love you, Cassandra, my heart. I want you beside me always. I miss you so dreadfully.

Trev

* * *

_**Letter from Seeker Pentaghast to Inquisitor Trevelyan** _

27 Cloudreach

Beloved,

Thank you for sending so quickly after your arrival in Denerim. I am glad to hear that you are safe and well. Yes, Asher is in regular contact with Chandler, so it will be easy to exchange letters while you are there.

I cannot help worrying for you. I do not want you to be in pain of any kind, though I know that in life pain is unavoidable. I want to be by you when things go badly, to support you and give comfort. But I know that it is not always possible, and I must trust that your path will lead you where you need to go.

I am not certain that I understand what you mean when you say that you are becoming something. I am not even certain that I understand how to ask about this. If you can, will you explain?

I did not say much in my last letter about the terrible things that happened in Antiva, and their resolution. I am glad that you were able to take part in the mission to rescue your arm, and that it was so efficient as to be accomplished without bloodshed. I am sorry that you were caught up in Josephine’s difficulties in the first place, but if it was to happen you could not have had better allies than herself and Leliana. And I am not at all surprised that the final resolution was so deadly. I have always known how lethal Leliana can be when she is roused, and have suspected that Josephine could be even worse, and so it is proved.

As to the Montilyet family in general, I owe them a great debt for their care for you. I am so glad that they were so kind to you, particularly Lady Montilyet. I would very much like to visit them with you in the future, if you are willing. And to see your artist, and hear his story.

I have heard Leliana sing, though only a little—it was long ago and not in performance. In the early years of working for Justinia she could sometimes be found singing to herself. I do wish that I had been there to see her sing on this occasion. Though perhaps it was better that I was not, as I am not certain that I could have restrained myself against the Rios family and allowed Josephine’s game to play out.

You asked me to tell you of the ordinary things that are happening in Vérité, and so I will. Please tell me of the ordinary things you do in Denerim, as well. I think we have had quite enough terror and excitement for the time being.

The roads are open now, and the first shipments have arrived, including the furnishings ordered for the keep. The tower still needs some final finishing work but is now habitable. This has resulted in an enormous amount of bustle as things have been rearranged and we have moved quarters. The rooms I have taken for us are high up; there is an excellent view on two sides. They are very comfortable, but lonely without you. All of your belongings have been moved with mine; you will have to come home and see to it yourself if you dislike their arrangement, or the placement of furniture. It will be a pleasant thing to argue about.

The bustle will continue for some time as things shake into place. As the lodge has now been vacated, Shenker is working on some renovations before taking it over and moving the tavern there, and making a proper inn for travellers. There is great enthusiasm for this change with the workers, and so she has assistance even outside of those who have been assigned to the work, and I expect the move to be complete sooner than scheduled.

The library, on the other hand, is taking longer to deal with. The books themselves have been moved but Dominic cannot seem to settle on how best to arrange things: he sets them out one way and then changes his mind. We have had a Tranquil mage arrive recently, though, a woman named Septima, and I have assigned her as his assistant. I am not certain that this will be a boon or a curse, as her mind works in ways that are very different to his and are considerably more firm in their convictions. I have a suspicion that they are constantly undoing each other’s work. We will see if they can come to an agreement without blood being shed.

Over the winter I have been working with Emery and others to develop a program for Seeker candidates. The process for working with templars who have come to us was of course already well established, and has required only some minor adjustments, and they have begun their studies. The program for the children has required more work, but is now quite well developed. I have also been exchanging letters with the tutors we have engaged, and they have a clear understanding of what is expected of them.

Now the tutors have arrived, and so have the children who have been recruited, so there is chaos in that area as well. I thought that the preparations were well in hand, but I suppose it is to be expected that problems will arise at the last minute when new projects are begun. At least the dormitories in the keep were ready for them, so they are well housed and well fed.

I have two apprentices myself, a responsibility which I am unsure I was wise to take. The first is Clarence. He did well as a Templar, is honest and faithful, and I think that he has a good chance of succeeding as a Seeker candidate.

The second apprentice—well, I am not quite certain how this came about, but it is Carlyle. She has made it clear that she has high expectations of me, and I find myself entirely intimidated.

I have made it clear to both of them that my duties may take me away from Vérité at times, and I have arranged for Emery to mentor them in my absence if there is need. They have agreed to this, although Carlyle was somewhat disapproving of my unreliability.

It is normal for apprentice candidates to be interviewed when they are provisionally assigned a mentor, to determine their compatibility. It is less usual for a mentor to be interviewed by an apprentice, but that is exactly what happened to me. “You’re going to fix the stuff that went wrong with the Seekers, aren’t you?” she said almost immediately. “Because they lied about things.”

“Where did you hear about that?” I asked, because I was so startled that she was aware of it.

“People talk in the tavern,” she said, as if it was the stupidest question imaginable. I suppose that it was a particularly stupid question, for is not surprising that a child interested in joining the Seekers would pay attention to anything that involves them. “Not just here, in my aunt’s tavern before. They don’t think I listen, ‘cause I’m young. But I do. And I remember, even when I don’t understand it all. And if I don’t understand I try to find out what they meant. I’m good at finding things out.” I am uncomfortably certain that this is absolute truth.

“Yes,” I said. “The Seeker organization was built on a lie. It is my intention to rebuild it with a foundation of truth, so that all who join understand what is involved.”

“About being Tranquil, you mean,” she said, surprising me again.

“Yes,” I said. “And other things. You will be taught about the most important of these in your first year as an apprentice, so that if you change your mind about becoming a Seeker you can go home.”

“I’m not going home,” she said. “Not if you do things right. And if you don’t maybe I’ll join the Templars. I don’t want to work in a tavern.”

By the end of the interview we had negotiated an agreement as to how our relationship will proceed and what expectations we have of each other. There were some conditions of her apprenticeship that she did not approve of, but in some instances I was able to explain their merits in a way that convinced her that they were reasonable. In others we were able to find a compromise that was acceptable to both of us without completely ignoring the rules of discipline that are intended to apply to candidates.

It was an interesting afternoon. I hope that not all of our meetings are as interesting.

One of the negotiations we held was with regard to your Satinalia present, which turned out to be more of a present than I expected. More than that I will not say.

Carlyle’s brother Castor is settling in well, though Segal tells me that she was negotiating terms for him with both himself and Adan. Segal thinks it amusing; I’m not certain what Adan thinks.

I shall close this letter now and send it, as Emery is waiting to meet with me. Oh my heart, be safe and well.

All my love,

Cassandra

* * *

_**Inquisitor Trevelyan to Seeker Pentaghast** _

25 Cloudreach

Dearest Cassandra,

I sent my last letter too soon; had I but waited till the morning I would have had so much more to write about.

I have seen Sera. I almost killed her, in fact, or at least I tried to. She came in the window of my room at the Star and Anchor after I’d gone to bed, because of course she would. I woke to a shadow moving, and after recent events I was not inclined to enquire as to its nature. It is fortunate that she is so very good at defending herself, for I was so caught up in fear and rage that my mind did not at first recognize her voice when she spoke, and I found my dagger where I’d laid it and attacked her. It didn’t help that when she finally pinned me it made me panic, and it was some time before it sank in that she was a friend and not an enemy.

“Bloody hell,” she said afterwards, when I had finally stopped and she had lit a candle, “are you crazy?”

“The last time someone came into my room at night, things didn’t work out well for me,” I said. I was still so furious and panic-stricken that I was shaking.

I was expecting her to argue with me, because she was obviously angry herself, but she didn’t. “Right,” she said after a moment. “Then if I do it again I’ll warn you from the window. Before I come in.”

She had a flask of wine with her, and I felt better after we’d drunk half of it. It was typical of conversations with Sera, all over the map. But the gist was that she and Dagna are very happy. Sera is working with the Jennies, and pleased with what she’s accomplishing. Dagna takes a small number of contracts, and because of her reputation they are highly profitable, which frees her to spend much of her time doing the research and experimentation that she prefers.

I told Sera some of what had happened since I left you at Vérité. She’d heard some of it but not all. Unlike most, she entirely approved of what had happened in Kirkwall.

She left after a time, but I did not go back to sleep, being far too unsettled. It’s light now, and I can hear movement from below. I shall go down and take breakfast, and start the day.

28 Cloudreach

I have been exploring Denerim. It is as it always has been and always will be, beauty and squalor all together. The alienage is still a bitter place. The ending of the Blight saw changes that improved the case of the elves, but now there’s common knowledge of some of the events at Halamshiral with the Qunari, and many have gone to follow Solas, so here too there is considerable suspicion of those left, and it’s hard for them to find work. I fear it will drive more to Solas out of desperation.

I’ve seen Dagna again, at her request; she wanted to test some adjustments she had made to the arm. I’m not quite certain what she has done, but she has ideas for changing the mechanism in ways that will make it function more smoothly. I’ve seen other arms like it, though none quite so elaborately constructed as mine. Dagna made the basic plans for the arm she made for me available, so that other smiths and craftsfolk can make them. So I shall not stand out in a crowd here, which pleases me.

It occurred to me that the techniques Dagna used on the arm could also be applied to artificial legs, and I mentioned that to her. She said she’d been thinking about it, that it was more complicated in some ways and less in others. I told her about Petros—he’s working for the Arl of Denerim now, if you remember?—and suggested that he might be interested in working with her as a subject if she decides to pursue it. She probably will, I think; she remembered Petros and said she liked him, she’d drunk with him sometimes and he had interesting things to say about weapons. “He can draw,” she said, looking thoughtful. “Maybe he could help me make diagrams for others to use, because I can’t draw to save my life.” So that may work out well for both of them.

3 Bloomingtide

I have received your letter—I had already been thinking more about what you said in your previous message when I received this one, and so I must try to answer some of what you have asked. ~~I think~~ ~~If you~~ You said you worried for me. You said that you didn’t want me to be in pain. It made me think of that time when my brother came to Skyhold, and I almost lost you because I couldn’t bear to speak to you of my pain, and you couldn’t bear to speak to me of yours. ~~Perhaps I~~

[ _indecipherable paragraph_ ]

I think I’ve been doing that again, trying to hold myself together against the fear and sadness tearing me apart. Trying to protect you? Trying to protect myself? I don’t know. ~~I only know that my instinct is~~ But we agreed then that we must be able to accept each other’s pain, and it’s wrong if I’ve been stopping you from understanding mine. I must not let this black dog that winds between my legs trip me, so that I fall behind and lose you. ~~I cannot~~ I must be honest.

And yet it’s so hard, because I don’t know how to speak of it. I don’t know how to find the words. And it’s not all pain, it’s just… difference. You ask what I mean when I say I’m changing, and becoming something. But I can’t tell you, because I don’t know what I’m becoming. I’m not sure I even know what I was. Daughter, mercenary, Herald, Inquisitor… none of these are me. They are, and they aren’t. They aren’t enough. I feel so strange and unsettled in myself, as if I am a host of strangers all in one body.

The only thing I can hold to without question is that I am yours. I love you. If I ever do not love you, I will not be myself.

Ah, this is far too serious. Let me find something more cheerful to say.

I look forward to seeing our new quarters. It sounds as if everything will be very much changed by the time I return. Your hints about my Satinalia gift are intriguing, but I am resilient; I shall not weaken and ask you to tell me what it is. I shall instead admire the shimmering perfection of MY gift for you, and how lovely it will look ~~in~~ on you by candlelight. Especially if you are naked.

You are to mentor Carlyle? I laughed for five minutes straight when I read that and felt better than I have in weeks. My love, of all the challenges you have taken on in your life, I assure you that this will be the one that will be the most interesting. Possibly the most rewarding, and certainly the most difficult. I look forward immensely to observing your interactions in person. I think you were wise to negotiate the right to pass your duties to Emery from time to time: the ability to escape will be important, and I promise that when I see your frown of panic becoming too constant I shall do my best to extricate you from your responsibilities for a day or two.

I would like to go to visit the Montilyets with you, I think. As you say, they were very kind, and I liked them very much. Perhaps such a visit would do something to erase the unpleasant associations with Antiva that I have been left with. But right now I can’t imagine enjoying it, even to see Josephine and Leliana and Lady Montilyet again. When I think of Antiva all I feel is fear and anger. Mostly anger, to be honest, and my temper is so short right now that I don’t want to encourage it, so I try not to think of it at all. I told you that I felt I was changing—that is not what I want to change into.

Do you remember Stafford? I thought I saw her yesterday, disappearing round a corner, but when I turned it myself she was not there. No one was. I see the dead far too often, I think, usually in dreams. Sometimes I can feel them pressing on me. There are so many who died standing against Corypheus. That was bad enough, but then there were those who died by the hands of the Qunari, ~~and that was entirely my~~ Ah, I will not think of that. The dead are dead, as we all will be some day, and have no place in this world. It’s only that others have familiar features, as happened with Alvar.

But I am growing grim again. Let me tell you about Sera and the Jennies. Denerim has always offered fine hunting grounds for Sera, with the arrogance of the nobles and the suffering of the poor, and that has not changed. She has been very busy since she returned, and has told me of several satisfying actions.

She has some plans in mind now to embarrass a wealthy merchant who cheats his workers, and I have half a mind to join her in this once I have the arm back if they have not already carried out their action. He certainly deserves to be embarrassed. This is what he does: he hires a tradesman to do work for him, the work is done, and then he pays only a fraction of what is due, complaining that the work is of inferior quality, which of course it is not. It is widely known that he does this, but people still continue to work for him, especially poorer folk, because they are desperate and he pays in full just often enough that he can claim that he is fair and only holds back payment when there is reason. They tell themselves that it really is a question of quality, and that if they do their finest work they will be fairly recompensed. But this rarely works out for them, as poor people have the fewest resources to fight him when he cheats them.

I know that as you read this you are saying no, stay out of it, given how things have gone so wrong for me recently, but I have missed Sera and her pranks, and being able to do something to help others. I feel so impotent that I must do something. Never fear, I will do my very best not to embarrass my former station, and keep my part very small.

I will close this letter now and send it, together with all my love. I miss you, my Cassandra.

Trev


	19. The Jennies

_**Letter from Seeker Pentaghast to Inquisitor Trevelyan** _

10 Bloomingtide

Beloved,

I am sensing a certain lack of sympathy when it comes to my duties as a mentor. Indeed, I believe that I detect a level of glee that is entirely inappropriate to one who should be concerned for my well-being.

Challenging—yes, that is a word for it. Clarence is old enough to understand things about the world and its workings, and his faith is strong, and he is a pleasure to work with. Carlyle’s experience has been very different, and though she is almost unnaturally wise in some ways, she lacks experience in others. I am not certain that Carlyle has a strong faith in anything, though certainly something is strong in her. It worries me: can someone who trusts in so little find the strength that is needed to serve, to stand vigil? Do I have the ability to instill in her the things that she will need? But it is early days, and there are years that will pass before it comes to that. I must trust that she and I will find a way forward.

She told me in our first meeting that she does not believe in the Maker. She says that any god worth believing in would not have deserted their people, and so she will not give Him the respect of belief. She has a slightly better opinion of Andraste, though it is still a very critical one. She said somewhat kindly that she knew I believed and did not hold it against me. I scarcely know what to say in response to her assertions, which are very firm. I would be glad of your thoughts on this, should you have any.

Castor is fitting in well, without any fuss. Adan has rather taken to him, it is really quite surprising. He is still abrupt and gruff, but it doesn’t seem to bother the boy. And if Castor is ever upset with his treatment, he can look for a champion in Carlyle, who is a force to be reckoned with, or go for comfort to—but no, I cannot tell you that, not yet.

Things are going well here at Vérité. Gardens have been planted, and we are beginning to see the results from the kitchens. This high in the mountains we have a short growing season, but we also have people who know how to make the most of it, even if we do not have the same strange benefits that we enjoyed at Skyhold.

I am sorry that you were so badly startled by Sera coming in through your windows. I hope that she has learned her lesson. She has more sense than she shows, so I suspect that she will be more careful of your nerves in the future.

 ~~I do not want to~~ ~~Are you~~ ~~I know that~~ [ _whole paragraph scratched out and indecipherable_ ]

Please take care with the Jennies and do not let yourself come to harm.

I remember Stafford. She was a good woman. I suppose that it is not surprising that you would think you saw her, and others; we look for familiar faces among strangers. Sometimes the press of memories can be overwhelming.

You reminded me of how we could not talk to each other when Eiric came to Skyhold and I was a candidate for the Divine. Yes, that is exactly it. You know that I am often bad with words, but I will try, even if I am awkward and cannot explain myself, and I will not hide my pain from you. I ask only that you do the same.

I am being called away, so although this letter is short I shall ask Asher to send it. It is a wonderful thing to be able to correspond so regularly by raven, and not worry about using resources that should be allocated elsewhere.

You said that you might begin to travel back toward Vérité. My love, I miss you. Come home to me when you can.

All my love,

Cassandra

* * *

_**Inquisitor Trevelyan to Seeker Pentaghast** _

15 Bloomingtide

Dearest Cassandra,

I’ve been teasing you about Carlyle, but your last letter sounded uncertain of your path with her, so I shall reply without the teasing. She cannot have a better mentor; you will do well by her. If she doesn’t succeed as a Seeker, so be it; but I think you are exactly the kind of person she needs to show her that hers is not the only way to see the world.

You’ve told me of the time before you came to the Seekers: think back. Did you trust in so much when you came to them? A child who has endured terrible things will not trust easily.

She is not a believer: well, neither am I, as you well know. But you don’t just believe in the Maker, you believe in honesty and ethical, principled action in the support of truth. I think that is where you will find common ground with her, and I’m certain that she can come to respect your belief just as I do, even if it is not shared. I don’t mean that she will come to believe, that she will not challenge you. I suspect she is the sort who will challenge everything. But my love, your faith is who you are. How can anyone who knows you not respect it as they respect you?

I don’t know what part faith plays in the making of a Seeker. You’ve told me what part it played in making you. But there are different kinds of faith. She certainly seems to still have faith in truth and honesty. That may be all that is needed: a belief that one must cleave to truth no matter how difficult, in order to make the world a better place. It is a difficult belief to hold. Too many of us lose it in cynicism and doubt, but you never have, and you are the example that stands before her.

You are the example that stands before me, the surety that gives me strength when I have none. I wish you were here now to lend it to me.

18 Bloomingtide

I must tell you of what has been happening here in Denerim. I have the arm back; I’m not certain what Dagna did, as it looks pretty much the same, but it works more smoothly, and I can do some things more quickly. I’m not certain that I will ever feel fondness for it, because it represents so many sad losses, but I’m used to it now, and would be very sorry to lose it, as I discovered in Antiva.

Dagna is working now with Petros, as I suggested, and says that the differences between arms and legs have led her in interesting directions. Dagna says I should come to Denerim every year or two, for she will continue to experiment, and will happily make me her subject. Dagna says that there are endless possibilities, and have I considered an arm that extends? Sera says that this would be very useful in thieving, as one could reach high places so easily, and that it would also be a great benefit if I was to take employment as a barkeep, as I would be able to punch troublemakers from a distance. I am a little unnerved by the potential of combining Dagna and Sera’s ideas, I must say.

But now I must tell you of the tale of the cheating merchant. Prepare yourself, it is a good one, and for once does not involve any embarrassments to myself.

The Jennies worked with the man’s servants and certain small, not very valuable items were extracted from his estate. I am told that when he first made some money he spent it freely, and was known for having singularly bad taste, being attracted to ostentation rather than quality and subtlety. As he advanced he wanted badly to be welcome in the salons of the nobles, and hired a consultant to advise him on how to best fit in. She recommended that he get rid of a good number of the things he’d purchased. Indignant, he refused, and of course also refused to pay her for her services because she disagreed with him. Now he makes no purchases himself, having an agent to do it for him, and while he has not been weaned from demanding ostentation at least his belongings are marginally acceptable to the nobles he respects.

But he must have taken at least a little of what the first consultant said to heart, for although he didn’t get rid of the items she disliked, he did put them in storage, where no one could see them. These are the items that were liberated from his estate, and of course no one would have noticed their absence.

A few days later flyers were distributed in the poorer sections of the city, announcing a sale of goods on behalf of the merchant. On the next day someone set up a table in the market—no one knows who, and certainly no one was there to manage it. On the table were the items from his home, and several large, beautifully lettered signs that explained, as the flyers had, that the poor merchant Gaetan Tarne had fallen into such poverty that he could not feed himself, much less pay those who did work for him, and called on the charitable to purchase the goods he was forced to sell off at whatever seemed a fair price to them. There was a strongbox for donations, and two guards to watch it. When asked later, they said that they did not know who their employer was; someone had contacted their captain by letter, enclosing fees to pay for their services, but the name given turned out to be false.

Well, all the items were sold long before Tarne learned of what was happening and came to do something about it. Servants had carried word of the sale to many of his noble acquaintances, but everyone was far too delicate to mention it to the man himself. But the market was unusually busy that day, and there were still people hanging about to watch the fun, and occasionally a worker would toss in a donation of a couple of pennies here and there to show their concern for the man. The nobles apparently did not donate, though I heard that some of the items sold did end up in their estates, where they became the subject of much amusement. I also hear that enough was raised to buy a night at the Pearl for the poor fellow, and that a note on the box suggested that as screwing people was his particular skill, he might as well continue.

But the best is yet to come, and that is where my part came in. I had made sure to make myself known some days previously to the Revered Mother at the Chantry, whom I recalled was a friend of Mother Giselle’s, and I used that connection as an introduction. So it was perfectly reasonable to meet with her again to make a small donation to the Chantry, and take tea with her, and mention in passing what was happening at the Market. The Revered Mother, horrified that someone of consequence was suffering so, sent a Sister to investigate.

Having loosed that bull, I took my leave and went to do a few errands. These took me eventually to the Market again, and I am so glad that they did, for I was there just in time to see a senior Sister of the Chantry offer to hold an official fund-raising event for Tarne—something they usually do for only the most desperately poor—and ask if he and his staff had enough to eat, or if they should send soup.

Well. I thought the man was going to have apoplexy right then and there. He managed a strangled “Thank you, but it will not be necessary,” but the Sister was evidently convinced that it was pride speaking, and pursued the issue. By this time an audience had collected and was enjoying the whole thing very much.

I suspect that he may think twice before cheating workers again. I hope so. I must say as well that although my part was small, I have rarely felt so satisfied with an afternoon’s work.

20 Bloomingtide

I have been trying to think more about how to explain myself to you. It is difficult, but I’m sure it is a useful exercise, as it allows me to explain myself to myself, and of course there is nothing more useful than explaining Evelyn Trevelyan, who is a person of such marvelous complexity! I am certain that the entire world would agree, and as my love, surely you can do no less.

No. Stop. It is not a “useful exercise.” Such joking words are a diversion. They are dishonest. But I do not know how to be honest, because when I try to find honest words they slip away. I cannot focus, I cannot concentrate; it is as if someone else is talking to me, a voice that interrupts every time I begin to get a grasp on things, and distracts me.

Damn this confusion.

Cassandra. Oh, Cassandra, I must say your name over and over, I must hold to you, for you are a rock. You know how to be honest.

Let me try.

Does everyone have this darkness lurking in them? I wonder, sometimes. Are there ever days when you feel you can’t get out of bed? When there is no point? It’s wrong, I know it’s wrong. I don’t want to be this person. But the darkness is there, it’s in me, and somehow I must accommodate it, or expel it. I’m not quite sure how to do either.

I’m trying to be honest, and it frightens me.

I feel so unconnected sometimes, so unanchored. I don’t know quite who I am. It’s not who I was. I said I am becoming something, and I believe it to be true. Sometimes my footing feels very solid. Sometimes it all slides away, and I don’t feel like a real person.

I am trying to learn myself, so that I can stand solidly all the time. That is what I’m trying to do. Sometimes I think I have a grasp on it, and then it all slips away. I am doing better at it than I was. This journey is helping, I think. The darkness is still here, but it is not so frightening. It’s stranger, but not so frightening. ~~I think that I need to learn how to~~ I’m not sure what I need to learn from it.

This makes no sense. Let me try again.

I have been angry and hurting. There, I am being honest at last, even to myself. My hand—it seems ungrateful to be so upset about it, because I have been so lucky in so many ways compared to others, and I don’t even know how to explain why it has upset me so much. Maybe it’s not the only thing upsetting me. ~~But it doesn’t feel like a good reason to~~ I have felt as if there is something following me around, something that wants to smother every happy thought I have. Sometimes it has succeeded, and then everything has been grim and grey. I have tried to resist, but I have not always been successful.

Lately it has been different. That is what I am having so much difficulty explaining. There is still pain. There is still anger. There is still fear. But there is something else. It is different. I feel as if the voices that have spoken only grey, grim thoughts have retreated a little. There are voices now that are different.

I say voices, but of course I mean the things I think in my own head; these are metaphors. They are taking me in directions that I don’t quite understand myself, but it is better than the darkness I was falling into before. I have said that I am changing, but perhaps that is not the right word. Perhaps a better word would be discovering. But I have not yet entirely figured out what this new place holds, what it means.

There. I have said it, more or less. I hope that I have finally made some sense. I am sure that my unhappiness is no surprise to you. It is the changing that is hard to explain. I cannot explain myself, but I think that what is happening is hopeful.

25 Bloomingtide

There has been great excitement in the past few days, for an event was held in the city and things did not go quite as expected. There is an association of nobles called the “Patrons of Ferelden” who pride themselves on their discernment, and they decided to hold a festival of the arts. But not everyone agreed with their intentions and ambitions.

The first problem was that these are nobles who tend to revere and wish to emulate Orlesians. Because they hold Orlais in such esteem, so too do they hold Orlesian work as the pinnacle of artistic achievement, and most of what was exhibited was Orlesian. There was very little work of Fereldan artists displayed, though there were some half-contemptuously presented displays of Fereldan crafts. This annoyed the local artists mightily.

The second problem was that they took over the Denerim Market for the exhibition, and evicted the merchants for the duration. Now the nobility has the coin to purchase foodstuffs and other things well in advance, but those who are poor do not; and the merchants themselves cannot really afford to lose a week of commerce (the festival was held for three days only, but there were days required to set it up and dismantle it). So both the merchants and common folk were angry. But of course this was of no interest to the Patrons. The King might have had something to say about it, but he was away, and the Arl of Denerim did not care to intervene.

But in the end, not everything went smoothly for the Patrons. There were a series of disasters that befell the celebration. During the opening ceremonies an enormous flock of pigeons took flight over the Market, and the fine clothing of many nobles was despoiled. There was a thunderstorm late in the day; it would have not been an issue, as canopies had been spread against rain, the weather having shown signs of being poor, and those attending quickly took refuge under them; but they were poorly strung, and when the weight of water in them reached a certain point the whole assemblage collapsed like a deck of cards, smothering those beneath in cold water and wet canvas. During the speech of the Patron’s leader—known rather fulsomely as the Eminence—a swarm of bees somehow descended, leading to a most dramatic and embarrassingly shrill exit on the part of not just that bann but also his entourage; it was so dramatic, in fact, that the common people have made a song about it that is seeing considerable popularity in the poorer taverns. The worst was that some fine Orlesian delicacies—made with ham, I think, and very popular—were somehow contaminated, and made those who partook of it suddenly and violently ill. Truly, there is nothing quite like the sight of proud nobles clad in the finest of garments and the most delicate sensibilities puking their guts out over each other.

In the end, with one disaster after another, the Eminence took to his bed and the festival was closed after the first day. The common people were eager volunteers in dismantling it, and the Market was quickly returned to normal.

And yes, our friends were a part of this, and so was I, becoming a pigeon-wrangler for the occasion. Ah, I can see your frown from here; put it away! The whole thing was amusing and did no serious or lasting harm to anything but the egos of the Patrons, and I no longer have the dignity of an organization to protect. Sera thinks this is a great improvement: “Dumped all that shite about responsibility, hey?” she said. “You’re a lot more fun when you haven’t got that Inquisition stick up your ass!” I think maybe she’s right.

Because of all the activities over the last week I’ve met a few more of her friends and those she works with. Not all of them are like Sera, of course. Some are simply in it for what they can make from it, and assume others are as well. I met one informant, a high-ranking servant, who was as much of an ass as the worst of the nobles I have ever met. He made it clear that he had nothing but contempt for the Jennies, and the common people they help, and anyone associated with them, including me; he had no idea who I was, of course. From what he said I think he believed me to be a soldier invalided out after the war, and not a very competent one at that. He cares nothing for helping others; his aim in passing information to the Jennies is to do harm to nobles in ways that will advantage his employer and thereby himself. His employer is a wealthy merchant who is at least honest, unlike his servant. This man, Darby, is greedy and venal and set my teeth on edge. He was also altogether too handsy with another servant, a young friend of Sera’s who clearly didn’t appreciate his forwardness but was afraid to do anything about it, and he didn’t like being warned not to touch the girl when I called him on it. I was not polite in what I said. My temper is none too good these days, and I find it far too easy to act before my mind catches up. In this case I cannot say I was sorry, though Sera had to part us before we came to blows. I asked her later why she uses him, and she just shrugged. “He’s got good information,” she said, “and he’s reliable s’long as he’s paid. We can’t all be choosy like Inquisitors.”

And he is not the worst of those the Friends work with, although he makes me angrier than most. But despite all this I look forward to more opportunities to help the Jennies. I have enjoyed myself with them in ways that have been far too rare recently. Wrangling pigeons! I laughed so hard that I felt a tight, bitter part of myself float away; I felt as if I was someone else entirely, something else, something lighter, a pigeon myself, a hawk, a dragon, I don’t know!

There are plenty of opportunities to spread my wings here, in any case, for the Jennies are very busy. The divide between rich and poor in Denerim is great, and although the King has tried to mitigate it there is only so much he can do in the face of the stubbornness of the nobles: the best of them take his side, but the worst do as they please in their own dealings and there are few laws to prevent them from doing so, and the poor suffer. The mood of the city is sullen and angry and tavern fights are far too common, especially in the taverns Sera and her friends frequent. But you will be happy to hear that I have acquitted myself well when faced with brawls. Finding a drink in Denerim has turned out to be quite a boisterous activity. They could use your prevention strategies, I think. Though that would probably cause riots.

I can understand the impulse to violence; it’s not as bad as Kirkwall, but the city makes me angry, and glad to take action. It’s like something building up and fizzing until you can let it go, and there’s never enough ways to let it go. But working with the Jennies makes it better. It does some good and it makes people happier, so it’s less likely to turn into fighting and killing, and that’s good.

Sera has a plan to—no, I will not tell you about that until it is done; I will save it for later.

Oh my love, how I miss you, and keep you in my heart, how I wish you were here or I was there or we were somewhere together.

30 Bloomingtide

Well things went very wrong with that last action but I must say that I find it hard to be sorry, though Sera is angry and doesn’t want me to work with the Jennies again, but I’m sure she’ll change her mind eventually. But while she’s angry I think I’ll go elsewhere.

Do you remember that informant I told you about, the servant who was worse than the nobles? What happened is we met him again and he was just as arrogant and obnoxious and I was getting more and more angry, and then we went to set up something to embarrass a noble, it doesn’t matter what it was but it should have all gone smoothly. But it didn’t—his information wasn’t right or something, I don’t know. What did happen was that someone caught us while it was happening and recognized Sera and me and that meant they had to be killed, and Sera was very angry about that and so was I. It wasn’t something anyone should have to die for. And the servant was angry too, because we had to stop the action and it was something that would have profited his merchant. And afterwards Darby—his name ~~is~~ was Darby—started blaming it on me and said, “You were the Inquisitor? Well, well, how far you have fallen. Nothing much left of the Inquisitor now, is there?” and then he said, “My master will lose by this, you owe us, we’ll sell this to pay for it” and then he took hold of my arm and pulled and reached for the buckles, and I killed him. I didn’t mean to, but he took me by surprise and I released the dagger and it caught him in the throat. We stripped them and threw both of the bodies into the Drakon river, so likely they won’t be recognizable before they’re found, but we couldn’t do much about the blood. There was a lot of it.

I don’t know why Sera is so angry, it’s not like he helped because he believed in what she was doing, he made it clear he didn’t. But she said his information was good and she got stuff from him that she couldn’t get any other way. But she was ready to kill Harmond and got pissy when I wouldn’t let her, I really don’t see why this is different. I should have let her kill him, then she’d have no complaints and would shut up about it. It was just the same.

Even Bull thinks it was a crazy thing to do. I was going to tell you that the Chargers came to Denerim, we’ve been drinking together and catching up. I’m in a tavern drinking now as I write this, but Bull isn’t here. They’re gone again to a contract. We had some fine tavern fights while he was here though.

He doesn’t know what he’s talking about. I’m fine. I told him so. Bull says I make as much sense as Skywatcher. That made me think about the Avaar. Sera doesn’t want me here, I’m going to go to Frostback Basin and see them. Storvacker too. I can ask the Augur about my arm. It’s different now since Dagna fixed it. I feel different now. Maybe there’s a spirit in it.

I will leave tomorrow. I will try to send letters from the road but I don’t know how often I will be able to. But I’m fine. I will be fine. After I see the Avaar I will cross the mountains by Skyhold and come home. I’m so tired. I miss you.

I love you always,

Trev

* * *

_**Sera and Dagna to Seeker Pentaghast** _

30 Bloomingtide

What is wrong with your girlfriend? She killed my informent. She’s not sorry. Should be sorry, messed me up. Get your ass down here and fix her. Even Bull says shes gone crazy. S

Sera wants you to come but the Inquisitor may not be here if you do—she says she’s going to the Avaar. It’s all unclear. She got drunk and said she thinks their spirits may be able to change the mechanical arm in some way that will help her; she talked about things like reaching into the Fade with it. I can do amazing things with enchantments and smithing, but that is not one of them, no one can do that, including the Avaar. Sera is angry but we are both worried. Please send to us by raven. —D

* * *

_**Letter from Seeker Pentaghast to Dagna** _

4 Justinian

Dagna, do you and Sera know what road she has taken, and if she is really going to the Frostback Basin? Her letter came just after yours and did not make much sense. I am setting out to find her. Please reply as soon as you can. Send your reply to the Chantry in Cumberland, I will look for it there.

Cassandra Pentaghast

* * *

_**Letter from Dagna to Seeker Pentaghast** _

9 Justinian

Seeker,

The innkeeper at the Star and Anchor says she bought supplies and a horse—a black mare—and left the day after we sent our letter. She had said that she was going to go south by the Brecilian Forest to the Frostback Basin. I think you should try to find her as quickly as you can.

Dagna


	20. The Brecilian Forest

She would have forgotten something important, of course; the habits of the years at Skyhold, when they rode out over and over again, had faded, and she had to think about what to bring with her. But she had flint and tinder, she had enough food to take her to Perendale and a flask for water and a cooking pot and a mug. She had a small tent and her bedroll and a set of dry clothes as well as extra dry stockings. She carried maps of the lands south of Redcliffe; while she knew some of them well, there were parts she had never seen, and the landscape could be confusing. She had a second horse carrying saddlebags full of grain for the horses, as she would be travelling as quickly as she could and wanted to limit the time needed for foraging. If there was anything else needed, she could purchase it as she travelled; she had plenty of coin and a letter of authority from her banker.

She had set everything in order before she left, a flurry of activity. There were no tasks that Emery could not manage as effectively as she, and it was not expected that this would change. She had planned her route, and arranged with Asher that any letters would be forwarded to specific places as she travelled.

She had to apologize to Clarence and Carlyle for deserting them for what could be a long time, but Emery would take over their mentoring, and do a good job with them. Telling Clarence was simple: he was a Templar and disciplined, and did not expect to have every detail explained to him. He simply nodded, said that he would be pleased to learn from Emery in her absence, and wished her well in her search for the Inquisitor.

Carlyle was different. “Why?” she said immediately, a mutinous expression on her face, when Cassandra told her that she would be leaving Vérité for some months.

Cassandra hesitated. She did not wish to explain herself in detail. And Carlyle was a child, and would not understand adult relationships and their complexities. “I do not think the Inquisitor is well,” she said finally. “I have gotten letters from her and from others that make me worry about her. She is travelling alone, and I do not think she is caring for herself as she should. I need to find her.”

“She’s your lover, right?”

Cassandra felt her face flame. Perhaps Carlyle understood more than she had thought. “Yes.”

“All right,” said Carlyle. “Then you have to do it. She’s family. I can see that.”

“Thank you,” said Cassandra, rather blankly.

Carlyle looked at her seriously, as if she was considering what to say. “When I met her she was hiding from people. She told us that sometimes she just wanted to run away from everyone. Maybe she’s hiding now if someone hurt her. You need to find her and bring her back. I liked her.”

Cassandra felt her jaw drop. “Yes,” she managed. “I will.”

*        *        *

“Don’t worry,” Emery said at her stirrup as she mounted. “All will be well here. And you will find her, even if it takes some time.”

“I will,” said Cassandra, gathering the reins. “Thank you. I know that I leave Vérité in good hands.”

The trails were in good shape; the weather was dry and the winter mud had dried into ruts that were gradually being flattened by usage. She rode as hard as she dared, for as long each day as she dared, balancing the panic that drove her against the needs of the horses. She walked when necessary to give them a break over the steepest parts, her legs aching. She ate flatbread, cheese and dried meat and fruit, for the most part not bothering to cook; she had little appetite and less patience.

She had planned her route carefully. The Inquisitor would be likely to take the quickest and most direct route to the Avaar, along the Imperial Highway past Lothering and Redcliffe and then down through West Hills to Frostback Basin. There was no chance that she could intercept Trev on the road, unless she was travelling extraordinarily slowly, and there was no reason for her to do so. If Trev did not delay she could easily be a full month ahead of Cassandra on the roads. Even if it was less, Trev would almost certainly be at Stonebear Hold long before she could hope to find her. It was of course possible that Trev could have visited the Avaar and moved on, but she had been spending considerable time in the places she visited, and if she had left Svarah Sun-hair would probably know where she had gone next.

It took her three days of pushing hard to reach Perendale, where she spent a welcome night enjoying the comforts of the Six-legged Dragon and telling the innkeeper of the adventures and accomplishments of his niece and nephew. He was delighted to hear that they had fitted in so well. “I made the right choice there,” he said in a confidential tone. “Got my own to leave the inn to, so they needed to be able to make their own way. And they weren’t the sort to run an inn, anyway. He didn’t want it and the girl doesn’t have nearly enough sense.” Cassandra stifled a defensive retort that Carlyle was one of the most sensible people she had ever met, and realized to her shock that it was true.

She replenished her supplies and rode out again the next morning, and found when she stopped mid-day that a loaf of fresh bread, crumbly cheese, apples, and some new-baked tarts had been slipped into her saddlebags, and was touched. They lasted for two days, carefully husbanded, and then she was back to plainer fare, augmented with provender from the remote villages she passed.

Trev would have had something to say about the quality of the food, she thought. She could imagine the look her lover would have given her. “There is no reason to punish yourself,” she would have said, while insisting that they set snares overnight, take the time to cook a meal when they caught something.

But fear drove her more than hunger; in the face of that food was only fuel. She would do nothing that delayed her, even in the slightest.

She could replenish grain supplies in most of the villages, for there had been good early harvests, and so was able to make fairly good time to Hunter Fell. After that the villages were more frequent and the roads in very good shape, and her speed was even better. But by the time she arrived in Nevarra City the horses were badly worn; she would not be able to push them further at speed.

She had expected this to be the case and sent a message before she left Vérité to her uncle, asking him to purchase a good horse for her. She rode directly to the Necropolis; she would ask him to have her horses stabled somewhere until she returned. Cassius would know how to arrange such things.

She had intended to find out where to collect the new horse and then go to an inn, but when she arrived and Cassius came down the stairs to greet her she found that her plans had been superceded. “Your uncle asks that you stay here tonight,” the steward said. And then, as Cassandra hesitated, ”It is late in the day, so you will have to stay in the City overnight in any case, and it would please him to offer hospitality if you will accept it. We can have the new horse brought here tonight, and all will be ready for you to leave in the morning.”

She suddenly felt very tired, as worn as the horses. It would not hurt to stay this once. “Thank you,” she said.

She was not shown to the guest quarters this time, but her old room. It had not been much changed since she was a child. To see it was a shock, and disorienting. She had assumed that her uncle would have turned it into a room for guests or used it for storage, as he had Anthony’s old room. But he had not. She did not know what to think of this. While servants drew a bath in her old tub she looked around. There was the same narrow bed, with bright, freshly laundered linens and extra pillows. There were her books, the ones she had loved and read as a child, those that were hers and not borrowed from her uncle’s library. Some trinkets that she had been fond of. Maker, there was her wooden practice sword. There was no clothing in the wardrobe, at least; that would have been altogether too strange.

The servants offered to wash her clothes, and provided clean breeches, shirt, and jerkin while this was done; the clothing was used but of good quality. She wondered who they belonged to. One of the upper servants, perhaps. Certainly they were not her uncle’s. They fitted well enough, and were comfortable.

After bathing she sat for a little, drinking a glass of wine and rebraiding her damp hair and thinking of nothing in particular. She was so tired, suddenly, that dinner with her uncle was no longer a worry to her. Then the servants called her, and she joined him at the great table, as she had so many times. He greeted her warmly, taking her hand for a moment and then gesturing for her to sit. “I am glad that you agreed to stay,” he said.

The meal was considerably less elaborate than when she and Trev had come to dine, but it was very good. They said little while the food was served and as they ate. He asked how the building at Vérité proceeded, and she spoke a little of their progress. But for the most part they did not converse. The silence was not uncomfortable, and she was glad to have the opportunity to eat without interruption. She found herself very hungry. Perhaps Trev had a point about making meals interesting.

Afterwards, when the meal had been cleared and they sat with drinks in his study, Vestalus said, “Your message asking for a horse to be procured so that you could change mounts seemed urgent, and now that you are here it is clear that you have been driving yourself hard. Is something wrong? I do not mean to pry, and certainly you do not owe me an explanation, but if I can offer assistance I would be glad to do so.”

Cassandra felt a sudden protective reflex run through her, rendering her speechless. But there was no harm in telling him _something_ , surely. “The Inquisitor has been travelling, visiting old friends,” she said slowly. “She was most recently in Denerim. But her last letters—” She hesitated. She did not want to speak of Trev’s mental state to anyone. “She did not seem entirely herself,” she said finally. “It is probably nothing, but I wish to find her and see for myself that everything is well with her.”

Her uncle looked at her shrewdly. “If you are concerned enough to leave Vérité, then there is something to be worried about,” he said. “I think that you are wise to look for her. I’ve acquired what Cassius tells me is a good horse, and it will be ready for you in the morning, together with fresh provisions. If there is anything more I can do to help, anything at all, I would be very glad to do so. I like your Inquisitor very much, and wish her well.”

Cassandra swallowed. “Thank you, Uncle. If there is anything I will ask.”

“You are tired,” he said briskly, “and I shall not keep you from your rest. But before you retire let me set things in order for tomorrow.” He tugged a bellpull, and a few minutes later Cassius appeared. “Lady Cassandra will ride out early tomorrow,” he said. “Please arrange with her as to when she wishes to be wakened, and make sure that all is in readiness for her.” Cassius bowed. “I will make my farewells to you in the morning,” said Vestalus.

“I will be leaving very early,” said Cassandra cautiously.

He smiled. “I am an old man, and sleep little at night any more,” he said. “I am normally awake very early. It is no trouble. Sleep well, my dear.”

She slept very well, and by the time a servant woke her before dawn was thoroughly refreshed. Her clean clothes had been brought, and her saddlebags packed by the servants, who told her that they had replenished her supplies. She had not been asked to take the time for breakfast, which she would have refused; she was provided with hot tea that she could drink while dressing and stuffed pastries that she could eat while riding. And her uncle was there to see her off, looking entirely rested himself.

“I wish you well in your search,” he said, taking her hand. “When you are returning to Vérité with her, I would be pleased to offer the two of you the hospitality of my home.”

“Thank you, Uncle,” she said. And then, impulsively, she leaned forward to kiss his cheek. It was something she had done dutifully every night when retiring, a courtesy drilled into her by her governess. It was something she had not done since the day he had told her that he was sending her to the Seekers. “Farewell, for now.”

He blinked at her, clearly disconcerted, and then smiled. “Farewell, Cassandra. Be safe.”

*        *        *

She made excellent time to Cumberland. There she hired a trade caravan to return the horse to her uncle, and found a ship that could take her to Jader after only two days’ delay. But the weather and winds were favourable, and the voyage itself was as quick as could be wished.

It was easy to hire a horse in Jader, for there were stables catering to travellers who began or ended a journey by land or water there, and if you had the coin there was a great deal to choose from. She asked the stable-master for a horse that would be strong and tough and able to forage rather than one bred for speed, for although she wanted to travel as quickly as possible she knew that parts of her journey would be through rough territory. The master brought her an ugly raw-boned Dalish All-bred blue roan and assured her that the gelding was exactly what she needed; sturdy and resilient, large enough to carry a woman in armour, but not so large that it could not still be quick and nimble. He was, as she had rather expected, named Blue.

She did not entirely trust horse traders, and did not have the skills to evaluate when she was being cheated, but in this case it seemed that the trader was honest: the horse did not tire easily and made good time. The roads from Jader to Ostagar were excellent, being used so much for trade, and from there she was able to follow the Imperial Highway south.

She considered stopping in Haven to replenish her supplies, but no; it would add at least two days to her journey, and she didn’t want to waste the time. She could find enough in the villages she passed on the journey south; it was late summer now, almost fall, and the harvests had been good here as well. They had extra grain to sell, and fresh bread and cheese and fruit were always available at this time of year. She was driven by a feeling of urgency that she tried to rationalize, a sense that something terribly wrong would happen if she delayed. It was foolish, but she could not shake that sense of impending catastrophe.

She left the highway before reaching Redcliffe, taking the road south to Honnleath and then West Hills. The land was heavily forested, the road wide but rutted with heavy use. There were villages, but they were small, built from wood and canvas and having a rather tentative air in the face of the wilds around them. Her progress was slower, but the roan still made better time than she had expected.

No one had seen the Inquisitor in Honnleath. Or at least, no one had noticed her; but she might have travelled through the village without stopping, and her artificial arm was not so noticeable when covered with a sleeve and vambrace. It would be more likely that there would be reports of her in West Hills.

But no one had seen Trev in West Hills, and that was far more worrying, because it would have made sense for her to stop there to replenish her supplies before heading into the wild lands further south. But the innkeepers had not seen her. She had bought nothing from the market vendors. She had not visited Arl Wulff or set foot within his hold. No message had come to the Chantry, either, although that was one of the places that Cassandra had asked Asher to forward letters to.

There was nothing.

Well, it was possible that she had ridden through West Hills as quickly as she had ridden through Honnleath. Cassandra could have done so herself, on the horse she was riding; the supplies she got there were a convenience, not an absolute necessity. And Trev was travelling to the Avaar, with whom West Hills had a history of conflict; she would not likely be inclined to say much about her plans to the locals. Cassandra herself said only that she was travelling southern roads trying to find a friend who was thought to be travelling those routes, and did not say what her destination was. It was entirely plausible that Trev would avoid interacting with those whose attitudes to the Avaar were so unfriendly.

There was nothing to be done but ride on. Surely she would find Trev at Stone-Bear Hold.

The roads were very rough south of West Hills, and after the first day’s ride there were no villages and they turned into trails. It was fortunate that she had spent a good amount of time here in the past, she thought, or she might have been hopelessly lost. As it was she became turned around twice, and had to retrace parts of her route. The land was wild and rough, and as she left the foothills to follow the track rising into the Frostbacks the temperatures at night began to fall. Fall was coming soon, faster here than in the lowlands. It would not be so long before there would be snow.

Hunters from Stone-Bear Hold found her three days out and greeted her with pleasure; they knew nothing of the Inquisitor. But they might not; they had been setting up a series of camps and smoking meat for winter caches, and had been away from the hold for some time. Still, it was disturbing.

She finally rode into Stone-Bear Hold to friendly greetings and found Svarah Sun-hair. “Greetings, Seeker. What can Stone-Bear Hold do to assist you?”

“I am looking for the Inquisitor,” she said. It was surprisingly difficult to draw breath to say it.

Svarah frowned. “We have not seen her since she was named First-Thaw,” she said.

The fear that had lurked somewhere in the region of her stomach rose up and set talons in Cassandra’s throat; she could not speak at all for a moment.

“She sent word from Denerim at the beginning of summer that she would travel here to consult your augur,” she said when she could. Her mouth felt stiff and cold. “We have had no word since. I expected her to be here a month ago.”

“By what route was she travelling?” The Avaar did not generally venture far from their own lands, except occasionally to raid their neighbours, and most did not know anything of lands beyond their own and did not care to, but Svarah was a Thane and it was her duty to know more. She had maps and understood how to read them, and would know how long it took to travel.

“I don’t know,” Cassandra admitted. “I thought that she would take the Imperial Highway and come by Redcliffe. It is the fastest route.”

“There are other ways,” said Svarah. “If she took them she might travel more slowly, though even on those she should have been here unless she delayed for some reason. Is it possible that she would have not taken the Highway?”

“It is possible,” Cassandra said. She did not know what Trev might have done; her letters had become so strange. “I will ride toward Denerim and ask for her until I find her trail, and search from there. I can think of nothing else to do.” She suddenly felt horrendously tired.

“Return to us if you do not find her,” said Svarah. “If she comes here, we will tell her to wait for you, at least until spring. You will need time to find each other. The weather will change soon, and it will be difficult to travel in the mountains, though not impossible.”

“I will go to Redcliffe and start my search there,” said Cassandra. “I must take my leave. My thanks, Thane Sun-hair.”

“Tonight you will stay as the guest of Stone-Bear Hold,” Svarah said in a tone that brooked no argument. “It is late in the day, and you will gain nothing by leaving tonight. You will travel more quickly after a good rest.” And Cassandra had to admit the sense of it, and thanked her again.

She rode out the next morning with her supplies replenished, and took the trail back to West Hills, pushing the horse as hard as she dared, caught in a haze of terror. She came to West Hills in a day less than it had taken her travelling the other way, took a room in the inn, and then went to the Chantry to ask if there had been any messages.

 _Maker_. There was a letter, arrived only few days ago. She took it, hands shaking, and broke the seal. There was a message from Asher, and an enclosed letter from Trev. Asher’s note said that the letter had been delivered by traders, and had been long on its journey. It would not be recent, then. But this was still hopeful: if there were recent letters, and they too travelled by land, they would have been delayed. And this would, she hoped, give some clue as to where Trev had been, and help find her now.

She did not want to read Trev’s letter in public. She retreated to her room at the inn, asking for food and drink to be sent up to her there. And then she broke the seal and began to read.

* * *

_**Letter from Inquisitor Trevelyan to Seeker Pentaghast** _

1 Justinian

Dearest Cassandra,

I’m heading into lands that are less populated now, so it will be harder to get messages to you, but I’ll keep writing letters anyway. I’m sure there will be opportunities to send them. Redcliffe will be one chance, at least, and perhaps sooner if I meet a trade caravan that can carry them, though of course any messages sent by land would take a long time to get to you.

I purchased a good horse in Denerim, a black Courser mare that was far too expensive. But I’m taking the long road home this time: my plan is to ride south of Lake Calenhad and then up to take the pass by Skyhold and pay a visit to Fiona. From there I shall ride through Orlais and around the end of the Waking Sea and then up back to the Seeker hold, so it will be worth having a good horse to bring back to Vérité. She comes from good breeding stock, the horsetrader told me, so even if she does not turn out to be the best of mounts she will still be useful.

But I have no reason to think that she will not turn out to be the best of mounts: certainly I’m very well-pleased with her so far. She’s strong and smooth-gaited as well as tough, and comfortable to ride for long days. She’s a good forager, unlike some of the high-bred horses we have known. She may be a little too intelligent; I caught her one day at the saddlebag that holds her grain, and I think it would not have been long before she got it open. She was most annoyed that I interrupted her work. I wasn’t sure what to name her; she had been called Coal, because she is entirely black apart from a small white off-centre star, but that reminded me too much of our friend and would be confusing. But now, after the incident with the saddlebag, I think I have settled on Reaver. (I did consider “Isabela” as she is also quite beautiful and full of herself, but decided that would not be entirely appropriate.)

I’m going to take my time and not push hard. I haven’t travelled this road before, not all of it at any rate, and I want to learn more of the land as I go, so I may do some exploring. I’m particularly curious about the Brecilian Forest—I’ve heard so many stories about it. So far I‘m only a few days into my journey, so the forest is close. It has an odd feel to it. It makes me think of the time I spent on Isabela’s ship, when I let my mind drift. It feels as if I could do the same here. It’s very restful. I may go a little way into it to see what it is like away from the roads.

I don’t want to think about what happened in Denerim. Things were going so well, and then suddenly they weren’t. Kirkwall, Antiva, Denerim—I seem to do nothing but get into trouble. Maybe that’s all I’m good for these days. ~~When I think about it I~~

It’s not important. None of it is important. There’s no point in dwelling on it, there’s nothing to be gained. I’m not going to think about it.

5 Justinian

I am at South Reach now and staying at the inn for a day while I replenish my supplies. Although for the most part I prefer to travel incognito, I did introduce myself to Arl Bryland, as I hoped to hear his tales of the Fifth Blight; and indeed, my ploy worked and I was invited to sup with him. He was happy to tell his stories to me, and when I asked him of the Forest he told me tales of that as well, including some of the Warden that I had never heard before. I’ll try to remember all of them so I can tell them to you when I come back to Vérité. He tells me that although it is less dangerous now, the Forest is still a strange place and somewhat chancy, and travellers who are not Dalish rarely go there. For that matter, many of the Dalish clans from the Forest have gone west to the lands near Ostagar that were granted to them by the King of Ferelden after the Fifth Blight, so there aren’t even all that many elves.

I’ve decided that I will ride east into the Forest for a little way tomorrow. The stories have intrigued me, and I want to know what the Forest is really like. I don’t think it’s likely to be as chancy as all that—you know how tales exaggerate things! Arl Bryland has tried to discourage me from this, saying that it is far too easy to get lost, but I will not go far in, and I will be careful.

…

The forest is beautiful. The trees are huge and make the sky dark. I‘ve set up camp by a great pool spreading from a stream beneath one of the largest trees I have seen outside of the Emerald Groves and I am sitting here and listening. Well, I thought I was listening but then I woke and found I’d been dozing and dreaming of the trees. The trees are like columns, like towers. The leaves are like lace, it’s all patterns above me, and they move and shift. There are deep shadows everywhere, high and low. There are birds high up though I rarely see them. Some squawk but there are some that arrive in flocks and there is a high peeping almost beyond what I can hear, it’s like a cloud of leaves has begun to speak. It’s like far-away voices. Sometimes there are sounds in the bushes but I have heard nothing large. The largest things that speak are the trees, which constantly seem to rustle even when there is no breeze. I’ve set Reaver loose to forage—there is a meadow close by this tree—she is a good horse and does not go far.

There are great stones set here, with very old carvings. I think I see the shapes of fire and lightning in them. I don’t know what they mean. They sit in the earth like old teeth and I set myself between them.

The water is cold. It makes my teeth hurt. I still bathed because it is a hot day and I needed to, and then let myself dry in the breeze. I have not put my clothes back on so I hope no travellers pass by.

I think I’ve been here two nights now. It’s very beautiful. It feels like time has stopped. It feels as if I am not here. It feels

…

I have such dreams here. They aren’t frightening, they are just very strange. I’ve been dreaming of people who died in the war and Qunari invasion. And others. I think they are dead? Sometimes it’s hard to remember. I can’t remember them. I can remember them. Maybe. They talk to me. I think it’s me they talk to, it’s hard to tell. I feel so insubstantial that it might not be. The trees talk to me, I’m sure of it, they say so many things. I think I’m sure of it. They talk to someone and there’s no one else here. Is there? Sometimes I think there’s someone else. She listens mostly but sometimes she says things. I’ve been learning so much. The days are not so interesting as the nights.

I think I will stay two more nights here and then ride back to South Reach. I want to come back to you before the winter. I want to tell you the things they’ve told me. I want to give you your Satinalia gift.

15 Justinian

I am writing from Lothering now. There are traders here who will carry my letter—I’m not sure how long it will take to get to you. Too long, I’m sure, but there are no birds here. I hope it won’t take too long.

I say that I’m writing from Lothering, but of course I mean the traders’ camp, not the village, which was destroyed in the Fifth Blight. The villagers tried to rebuild afterwards, but the land was poisoned and will remain so for many years, and they were forced to give up. There are only some empty buildings now, and ruins, and a shrine dedicated to the Hero of Ferelden and those who died fighting the darkspawn. It seems a bitter irony that the darkspawn were defeated and yet the village could not be recovered.

The camp is well established, as it’s an important crossroads, but the traders carry their own water, not trusting the local wells even for their animals. I think they’re wise, and have purchased water for Reaver and myself while we are here, which will not be for long. I will ride out tomorrow.

The shrine is quite beautiful, and the names of those who died are chiseled onto it. It’s a long list. Some got out when the village fell, but many didn’t. And of course the name of the Hero is there as well, and her companions, including Morrigan and Leliana, though they are not dead. It seems strange to mix the names of the dead and living, as if there’s no difference, when you think about it. Maybe there is no difference?

I have been writing of Lothering—the history of which you are perfectly aware of—because there are other things I don’t want to write about, but I have put them off for long enough. Maybe if I try to tell it as a story it will be easier.

A story, oh yes, the story of a great hero. The Inquisitor rides into the Brecilian Forest to rest and listen, to see who she might meet and what she might learn. She waits with open hands, waits to see what the Forest will provide. That would be a good story, wouldn’t it?

Too bad this is the story of a foolish Inquisitor.

A clan of Dalish found me. The encounter was… well, it was not what I might have expected. I suppose I expected that any I met would be like Keeper Hawen’s clan, suspicious and stand-offish but polite and eventually accepting. I suppose that I would have expected word of the Inquisition’s friendly dealings with the Dalish to have spread.

But as I should have known, there are differences between the clans, and not all are fond of “shems.” As far as I can tell this clan has stayed in the Brecilian Forest because they don’t want anything to do with those who are not Dalish, or even those Dalish who interact with outsiders or accepted the King’s grant of land after the Fifth Blight. They keep to themselves and hold nothing but contempt for outsiders.

I don’t know what this clan calls itself. They wouldn’t tell me. I don’t know if they are truly a clan, or one cobbled together from Dalish who are disaffected and found each other. I only heard a few names spoken; the Keeper was Lindiran. I suppose he was named after the warrior killed by treachery in the Exalted March against the Dales, or took that name by choice.

I had not been paying attention. I had been listening to the trees and the stories they told, drifting in and out of sleep on the bank of the pool. I remember hearing Reaver snort, but thought nothing of it—I was in a dream.

They were angry because this was a place sacred to Elgar’nan, and I polluted it by my presence. I was taken and bound before I could defend myself, and roughly. I didn’t understand what had been happening; I had been dreaming and for a while I didn’t realize that I was not dreaming still. I was dressed, thank the Maker, but not armoured, and they left marks on me and gave me a bloody face.

“You are lucky we did not kill you, shem,” said the Keeper when they brought me to him.

“I have no quarrel with the Dalish,” I protested.

“But you are trespassing on sacred ground in our forest,” he said, “and that is forbidden, whether you knew what you were doing or not. So we have a quarrel with you.”

By then they had searched my bags and found my letter of introduction and insignia. “This is the one they call the Inquisitor, Keeper,” said one of them.

“The one who kept company with the Dread Wolf,” said Lindiran. “Do you think that will make us kinder to you, shem? Humans are our enemy, and Fen’Harel is not our friend. The flat-ears of the cities may run to him, but the Dalish know him.”

“I didn’t know who he was,” I said. “And if you think I was kindly treated by his actions, I can assure you that I was not.”

Lindiran reached out and put his hands on the arm just where it fastens, and I could not stop myself from flinching. “The Dread Wolf takes everything he can,” he said. “Why we should not also take from you?”

“Because I have always respected the Dalish in my actions,” I said. “And because the Dalish have honour.” It was the only thing I could think of to say. He laughed.

“Be careful what you say, shem. Honour has different meaning in different mouths, and you may not like the taste of ours.”

There were more harsh words, and some pushing from which I could not defend myself. But in the end they let me go, setting me on my horse still bound. “Be glad we do not give you to Fen’Harel’s Teeth, shem,” one said. I don’t know what she meant.

They put my armour and other belongings in the saddlebags, or tied them to the mare, though carelessly and not caring for damage. “We want nothing of yours polluting this place,” said the Keeper. They kept my food and coin, though, apart from the little gold I always keep secreted in my boots. Apparently this was not something that would pollute them.

At least they didn’t take the arm. I couldn’t use the reins, as my hands were bound behind me, but the mare is well trained and responds to leg signals, and they had at least set me on the right path to take me out of the forest. I rode well into the night; I wasn’t thinking clearly but was aware enough that I knew I did not dare get down from Reaver’s back, for I would not be able to mount again. But eventually I had to dismount; I was too stiff and in too much pain to continue, and the mare was showing signs of tiredness. I tried to get out of my bonds but they had fastened them very well. I walked on then with the mare following until it was fully dark beneath the trees and I couldn’t see, and then sat and waited until light came and then walked on again. I managed to drink some water from a stream we passed, at the cost of getting very wet; it’s a good thing it was summer. Eventually we came to the Highway, and then after an hour or so a hunting party returning to South Reach came up on us, and I was freed.

Arl Bryland is angry and wishes to hunt the Dalish, but I’ve told him not to. I hope that he will follow my wishes. I was angry at first for the pain they caused me, but now I only want to leave them far behind and forget about it all. I don’t want to think about it.

I don’t know how to think about it. The Dalish didn’t care that I was the Inquisitor; to them I was only a shem. Worse, I was associated with Fen’Harel. To them I had no name, no title, and they didn’t care to change that. It feels strange to know that I am nothing. Less than nothing.

I don’t understand. I thought I knew who the Inquisitor was, even if I could no longer be that. I thought of myself as a friend to the Dalish. I’m not so certain of that anymore. I feel as if I don’t know who I am or even who I was. There are too many people, all speaking and I want to listen to the trees. There are so many ways I could go, so many paths. I don’t know where they go and they keep talking. I want to find the Augur the Augur will help I don’t know

I dreamed I was weeping and you held me

I dreamed that I could not stop weeping

I dreamed

I will find the Augur and then come back to you

I love you


	21. The Wilds

_I must find her._

Cassandra stared at the paper in her hands, unseeing. She was very cold. Her hands were shaking. Trev was in trouble. She had known that her lover was not doing well, was behaving erratically, but she had not foreseen this—this unravelling.

_I must find her._

She _would_ find her. She would ride toward Lothering. Probably Trev had stopped in Redcliffe, or one of the other villages. If she was ill she might not think to send messages. She might not be able to send messages. But if she was being cared for in one of the villages, people would know. She would find her.

There was no message in Redcliffe. No one had seen her. And the people there knew her well from all the years of war; it was very unlikely that she could have passed without notice. She had not reached Redcliffe.

She watched the sides of the road for signs of campsites or signs of any passage off trail and investigated every possibility, queried every person she met, stopped in every tiny village and settlement, asked at every solitary farmhouse she saw. No one had seen the Inquisitor. In the Lothering camp the traders had changed since Trev was there, and none had seen her. No, not entirely. One trader, who was returning to Ostagar after a successful journey, had been there when Trev was and remembered her, but he could not say where she had gone.

She must have missed something. She retraced her route to Redcliffe, trying to look even more carefully. There was nothing, and every day the panic set teeth in her throat, in her belly.

But now there were letters waiting for her in Redcliffe, forwarded by Asher.

* * *

_**Letter from Magister Dorian Pavus to Seeker Pentaghast** _

20 Solace

My dear Seeker,

I hope that this letter finds you well in your aerie at Vérité. It is unfortunate that you are so often drawn to such remote and elevated retreats, as their environs are dreadfully stark and their weather colder than a reasonable person could accept, but I suppose that discomfort must be some requirement of your Order. Is it a challenge to see how candidates will cope? I hope that you allow a range of responses to this difficulty; not everyone is capable of growing a protective layer such as Blackwall sported.

But I must set aside my jests and turn to more serious business. As you know, I have kept in regular contact with our dear Trevelyan through the mechanism of the sending crystals. I know that she has been travelling through Thedas; at one point she had suggested visiting me, but I dissuaded her, as even now, with so many political distractions, Tevinter would not be a welcoming or friendly or even safe destination for the Inquisitor. I hope that the efforts of myself and my friends may change this.

But I digress. The point is that Trevelyan has not contacted me in some time, and has not responded to my attempts to contact her. To put it bluntly, I am worried. This is not normal. If there is anything that you can do to find her, I ask that you do it.

With affection and best regards,

Dorian Pavus

* * *

**_Letter from Inquisitor Trevelyan to Seeker Pentaghast_ **

I am going to ride south to Ostagar. This is not what I planned but I want to see the Dalish and find out if I am their friend. I thought I was but perhaps I am not. I don’t want to go to Redcliffe, there are too many people there. Solas said that ruins are good places for dreaming and he told the truth sometimes and I want to dream. I’m tired of people. I want to listen to the voices. I’ll go to the Augur. I will not go through the Fallow Mire though because I hate that place.

…

I’m in Ostagar now. I made good time on the road here. Ferelden maintains only a small garrison here, but they’ve welcomed me and given me a bed. I know the Captain from before. It’s modest quarters—they haven’t rebuilt since the Blight, save just enough to house the soldiers and their dogs. Most of the place is still in ruins untouched since Cailen fell, very grey and sad. They’re happy to see a stranger, here at the ass-end of nowhere, and are treating me very well.

The garrison does receive some regular supplies from Denerim, but for day to day foodstuffs they trade with the Dalish, who live in the lands surrounding. I’ve met a few Dalish hunters and they’ve been friendly. I asked the hunters about the Brecilian clan and my reception there.

“Those are the ones who live in the past,” said one hunter. “They use their hatred to keep themselves alive, but it will eat them.” So it seems the Dalish in the Brecilian Forest do not represent all Dalish, which is somewhat reassuring. I have not been entirely mistaken in my understanding of them.

I’ve been exploring the ruins, which are truly impressive, and trying to picture what it looked like when it was whole. I’ve been trying to imagine the battle that happened here—there are so many stories that the place seems both far too real and strangely indistinct. But I don’t really have to imagine it; Solas was right. It’s easy to find dreams here. I’ve been finding sheltered places where no one comes and sleeping during the day and then sleeping again in the garrison at night. I think it’s sleeping. The Captain says I should not sleep in the ruins during the day, that it’s asking for trouble. But I think the dreams during the day are better. They’re not really dreams. The dead are here. I’ve seen the battles. The dead have talked to me. I even saw Cole when I was dreaming. He said that I should stop being a spirit but I’m not a spirit. That’s ridiculous. You need to be real he said. Don’t listen to her. But I am real. I think I’m real? Sometimes it’s hard to tell because the dead have so much to say.

I’m tired of people telling me what to do. Cole tells me what to do and the garrison Captain tells me what to do. The voices don’t tell me what to do but they say things that I want to listen to. I’ll go to the Augur. He’ll know. You hardly ever tell me what to do, it’s such a relief. I must bring you your Satinalia gift. I think you’ll like it I hope you’ll like it it is almost as beautiful as you are and every time I look at it I think of you, and your strength and honour and the way you see things, the way you follow truth and how you are golden. It’s that searching, that determination to find truth whatever the cost, that I love best about you. Truth is so difficult. I don’t know what is true here, it’s a strange place. The voices never stop.

The Captain says I should not go into the Wilds, I should go back to Lothering and then travel the highway to West Hills but I’m going to ignore him and see more Dalish if I can find them and more dead and maybe the Wilders. And the Augur. They’ll give me supplies even if I do not do what they want me to and I’ll give them this letter to send to you.

I miss you

I think I’m on my way home

* * *

**_Letter from Seeker Pentaghast to Dorian Pavus_ **

23 August

Dorian,

I write hurriedly as I am about to take to the road again. I am also concerned, and I am already looking for the Inquisitor. She is not herself, and her last communications have been strange and worrying. She had indicated that she intended to visit Stone-Bear Hold, but when I came there she had not yet arrived, though she should have been some weeks ahead of me on the road.

I am currently in Redcliffe, where I have after some delays received a letter from her. The letter says that she went to Ostagar from Lothering, and then I think she went into the Wilds, so I shall follow her there and attempt to pick up her trail. Please continue to try to contact her with the sending crystal. It is possible that it simply has been damaged or lost. If it has not, and you contact her, please tell her to go to the nearest settlement and send a letter to Vérité giving her location and then stay there until I find her.

I will send word when I find her.

Cassandra Pentaghast

* * *

“She had changed since I last met her,” said the Captain, who seemed to be trying to avoid Cassandra’s eyes. “She was… different.”

“I already know that she has not been herself,” said Cassandra, glowering. She was beginning to become exasperated with his evasions. The fool was probably trying to avoid her wrath, but he was going to feel it soon if he did not tell her what she wanted to know, and honestly. “Do not be so careful in what you say. I need to know what she did while she was here, and how she left. I need to understand her behaviour.”

The Captain took a breath. “If you can understand her behaviour it will be more than I can do,” he said finally. “All right. I asked why she had come here; she said that she wanted to dream with the dead. I don’t know what she meant, but I didn’t like it. This place is grim enough without trying to make it grimmer.

“Every day she would go out into the ruins. She didn’t seem to be exploring very much after the first day. She just found places that were protected from the weather and went to sleep. After I understood what she was doing I had her watched. It’s not especially dangerous around here, but there are beasts and sometimes the occasional bandit or Chasind warrior passes by; I didn’t want her to be taken by surprise. She would sit or lie and stare up and sometimes her eyes were closed and sometimes they weren’t, but she seemed for the most part to be sleeping. And if anyone woke her she didn’t make much sense. She kept talking about people who were dead. And then she would come in and sup with us and spend the evening talking and drinking like anyone would and then go to her room to sleep. That was what she said she was doing, anyway. I can’t see how anyone could possibly spend so much time asleep.”

“What did she say about the dead?”

“She said that they told tales. She said that someone had told her that ruins were a good place to dream about the past, to see the things that had happened there. Maybe that’s true. Maker knows I have often dreamed dreadful things about the battles here. But I would not _choose_ to dream them. I can’t understand why anyone would.”

“She has an interest in history,” said Cassandra. She did not believe that this was why Trev had come here to dream, but she felt a reflexive need to justify her lover’s actions.

“She said that she wanted to understand her place in history, and who she was,” said the Captain, frowning. “It didn’t make any sense. She’s the _Inquisitor_. She killed Corypheus and stopped the Qunari invasion. That’s who she is.”

Cassandra made an indeterminate noise in response; there was no point in arguing with him. He did not know Trev, and would not understand. It didn’t matter. “What did she say when she left? Did she say where she was going?”

“She said that she was going to visit the Avaar,” he said, looking displeased. “I can’t imagine why she would want to visit those barbarians. She said she would travel through the Wilds, and skirt the Fallow Mire. I told her that she should go by the Highway, that it would be quicker. I told her that the Wilds are a maze of trails, and that she was likely to get lost or fall prey to the Chasind. They are reduced since the Blight, but they are there, and though most pretend to be friendly now they are not always safe. You can’t trust barbarians, they do not have the honour of civilized folk.”

“They say the same of us,” said Cassandra pointedly. He huffed but said no more on that subject.

She accepted an invitation to eat as a guest of the garrison and stayed overnight in the room they had put Trev in, but there was not the slightest sign of the Inquisitor there; her presence at Ostagar had been light as a drift of ash. Cassandra did not dream in that room, and rode out the next day, following the rutted road that led into the Wilds.

The days achieved a familiar sameness. Ride carefully, attentively, watch for signs of any other riders, follow the signs if you find them, and for the Maker’s sake don’t get lost. But there were few signs, for it was late summer, and the ground was dry and did not show hoofprints so easily as it did in wetter seasons; most of the marks she could make out were old. There were only hints, here and there, to tell her that she might be on the right track.

She ignored the side trails that wandered off, for the most part; if Trev wanted to get to the Avaar quickly she would stick to the main tracks. But when she was faced with choices between roads that seemed equally likely, she sometimes found that one would peter out into a maze of trails, or disappear altogether, and she would have to retrace her steps.

It took a long time, and her speed was not helped by the need to give the horse some hours each day to forage. She took to camping where there were crossroads with meadows, hobbling the roan near a handful of scattered grain, setting a few snares, and walking the trails while he fed. If a trail was going to disappear, it usually did so within a certain distance. After she returned to her camp and built a fire and prepared her meal—sometimes, though not often enough, the snares would produce something, enough for a meal and perhaps a little more to dry crudely over the fire—she would make notes on the trails, a simple graphic of intersections and turns that would help her if she was forced to retrace her steps.

It slowed her, but she wore full armour and carried both sword and shield when she walked; she was not a fool. There were wolves in the Wilds, and Chasind, and neither were necessarily friendly or would ignore a stranger. She was used to walking in armour; she had done it for many years. But it was tiring and not the same as it had been when she travelled with scouts who would set up camp and cook meals. She began to feel ground down.

At first she did not see Chasind, though that might have been because they did not allow themselves to be seen. But one night she heard a sound and looked up from her fire to see a dark shadow standing a little distance away under the trees. She raised her hands, spread open, and said, “I have little food, friend, but you are welcome to share it with me.”

After a moment the figure stepped forward, and resolved into a large woman. Her face was painted in stark lines and her ragged leathers were adorned with bones and teeth. She was well-armed, with a number of knives, a small hunting bow and quiver, and a great flatblade slung over her back. “Why are you in these lands, stranger?”

“I am searching for a friend, who is travelling to Stone-Bear Hold and holds guest-right with the Avaar,” said Cassandra.

“Does your friend have a name?”

“Her name is Trevelyan,” said Cassandra. “The Avaar call her Inquisitor First-Thaw.”

Cassandra had thought long and hard about how to approach the Chasind, and how to gain their respect—or at least avoid making enemies of them. In the end she had put on her Seeker tabard; the Avaar had recognized it and known the Order was meant to stand outside the conflicts between nations and peoples, and she expected the same of the Wilders. The Inquisition itself had done no harm to the Chasind that she knew of, and had perhaps even done some good in the Fallow Mire when they had destroyed so many of the walking dead. The battle there with the Hand of Korth had only improved their standing with the Avaar, who were for the most part friendly with the Chasind, and was unlikely to do their reputation harm. There was no reason not to be honest about her identity and what she was doing.

“You are the Seeker who stood by her side against the darkspawn magister.”

“Yes. My name is Cassandra.”

The woman reached for her sword, and Cassandra tensed; but it was only to unhook it and set it down. “I am called Yeléna,” she said. “I will share food with you.” She settled beside the Seeker on her log. She smelled strongly of sweat and leather and some herbs Cassandra did not recognize.

There was little enough to share. Both had jerky and flatbread; Yeléna also had a little old cheese. “I have not seen your Inquisitor,” she said, “but I have heard rumours of someone travelling through the Wilds, a holy person, touched by the gods. Perhaps that is your lover.”

“Touched by the gods?”

“One who speaks to them or does their bidding.”

That made no sense. “I do not understand.”

“Some people can speak to the gods in dreams,” said Yeléna, “and sometimes even when waking. It is not always a happy thing, but what the gods tell them is always important in some way. Our people look for those who are holy and train them so that they understand what is happening and are not harmed by it; to be so close to the gods is a chancy thing. Is your friend trained?”

She was talking about speaking to spirits in the Fade, Cassandra realized, as the Avaar Augurs did. Her heart sank. Such things were not just chancy, they were dangerous. “No,” she said.

But Trev was not a mage, and susceptible to the touch of the Fade. Everyone dreamed, and that did not mean they were regularly conversing with spirits. Surely that was not what was happening. Trev would have known if it was. Wouldn’t she?

“If she is not trained then she is in danger,” said Yeléna seriously. “You must find her and take her to someone who can show her the way.”

“She wants to go to the Stone-Bear Augur,” said Cassandra.

The other woman nodded. “Then you must help her get there. I will send you to the village where I heard of her; that may make it easier to pick up her trail.”

The Wilders did not use maps as Cassandra understood them, but Yeléna took a long string of leather from her belt and began to knot it. “You will stay on this trail until you reach a crossroads,” she said. “That is this knot, tied just so. It means that you will have a choice of three ways, and should turn right.” It was a complicated yet simple system; each type of knot in the string carried a different meaning. Turn right, turn left, go straight ahead. “There are other knots used when there is a need to use small side trails,” said Yeléna, “but there are none between here and the village that you need take. Stay with the main roads.”

“Thank you,” said Cassandra fervently.

Now the Wilder was untying a small bone disc depending from a strip of leather from her belt and tying another more complicated set of knots into the strand. She handed this to Cassandra as well. The disc was incised with a design in the shape of a raven. “Show this to my people, so they know that you have met me. It shows that you travel through our lands as a friend of my clan. But know that not all clans will accept its surety, as we are not friends with all.” She showed her teeth in a grin.

This was a very great boon. “I owe you a great favour for this, Yeléna,” said Cassandra. “If there is a way to repay it I will do so, now or at any time in the future. A message sent to the keep called Vérité in northern Orlais will always find me.”

“There is nothing that I need now,” said the warrior, “but I will remember.”

The string map was as good as any Cassandra had ever used, which is to say that she took wrong turnings once or twice when what looked like main roads turned quickly into game trails, but she was always able to retrace her steps and find the right track. Twice she met hunters; they were suspicious until she showed them Yeléna’s token, and then gave her directions that made following the map easier.

She came to the Wilder village a few days later. She might almost have missed the village itself, had she not been looking, for it was built into the branches in a grove of great trees, and the planks and ropes of its construction were old and weathered, and in some places where feet did not step they were almost as mossy as the trees themselves. But there was a fire in a clearing below, and a group around it who stood as she approached. “What do you want, stranger?” said one.

She pulled out Yeléna’s token and handed it to him. “My name is Cassandra Pentaghast,” she said. “I am looking for a friend who travels through your lands, one named Trevelyan. Yeléna sent me here. She said that you might know of her.”

The warrior looked at the token and the knots carefully. “Yes,” he said. “She passed some time ago. Olek spoke with her and can tell you more.” He handed the token back.

“I met your friend,” said an old man in a reedy voice. He had stood with the others, but now he sat down again on a log before the fire as the warriors dispersed, leaving them alone. He was decked with far more ornaments than most, wearing elaborately carved bone charms not just on his clothes but also knotted into his hair. Cassandra thought that he was probably the clan’s shaman; he was clearly of high rank, but too old to lead as a hunter or warrior.

She crouched beside him, resting on her heels. “Can you tell me of her?”

“She has been touched by the gods. She will survive it, or she will not.”

She swallowed, momentarily wordless. “I wish to help her.”

“Help her? Those touched by the gods must help themselves. Is she your lover?”

“Yes,” said Cassandra.

He regarded her for some time. “Then it is right that you should keep her alive until she makes her choice.”

“Choice?”

He ignored her question, calling to a young woman. “You will share food with us tonight,” he said then. “Take this in token of your safety.” He took a small cup and filled it from a pot by the fire, taking a sip and handing it to her. She surreptitiously sniffed at it; it was some kind of herbal tea. She drank a little and handed the cup back. “Vira will show you where you can sleep, and where to let your horse graze,” he said. “When you have settled those things come back to the fire.”

Cassandra stood and bowed to him; there was nothing else she could do, though she was seized with frustrated impatience.

She was taken first to a small meadow, where rope was quickly strung to make a crude fence as she unsaddled the horse. After she let it free to graze she was taken a little distance away to a tree with a rope ladder that led to a small platform and shelter built into the branches. Vira indicated that she should put her gear in a basket depending by a rope, and when they had climbed up to the platform showed her how the basket could be pulled up.

Perhaps the shelter had been built to house those who were not part of the clan or considered entirely trustworthy, for the tree held no other dwellings, only some structures used for storage, and as it stood apart from the others it would be easy to guard. She set down her saddlebags and thanked her guide, who nodded silently and left.

The structure was crude, but it had walls and a roof, and she would be protected from the elements. She spread her bedroll and set out her belongings as she did every night, and then set her sword and shield by the door and stripped off her armour. Olek had made a point of sharing drink with her; she would be safe in the camp.

It was considerably easier managing the rope ladder without the weight of armour. There were more people with Olek by the fire now, and a great iron pot was giving off a pleasant smell. A tall woman with a great many ornaments stood next to him, and Olek beckoned to Cassandra, introducing her as Nashya, their chief. Cassandra bowed to her respectfully.

“Be welcome, Seeker,” said the chief, looking her over. The woman was of middle age, scarred and tough looking.

Cassandra had put her package of jerky in her belt pouch, and offered it to her. “I do not have much to offer, but please accept this.”

“We are glad to share food with you.” Nashya bowed, took a little of the meat, added it to the pot, and returned the rest to her.

It was an hour or so before the stew was considered ready to eat. In that time Cassandra sat beside Olek and people came and went. Some were curious about her; they had heard of the Right Hand who had declared the Inquisition, and they wanted to know about the Seeker Order and what it really did. She explained that the Order had been almost destroyed, and that her goal was to rebuild and refocus it.

“And will the Seekers take Chasind as apprentices?” said one man, a note of challenge in his voice.

“Yes, if they are offered,” said Cassandra, who thought that the questioner had not expected that response, “but there are things that are much harder to learn when a person is fully grown, so candidates must be very young when they come to us. We do accept older apprentices who have been Templars, for a good deal of the training is the same, but it is harder for them, and many do not succeed.

“If you wish to send children to train with us, then we will certainly accept them. But if they succeed they will be Seekers, and no longer completely Chasind. All other allegiances must be left behind.”

“And why would we do so, then?” said Nashya scornfully. Cassandra shrugged.

“I don’t know; that is a choice that you and the candidates make, not I. But I can tell you this. The Order has hidden far too much; I am determined that this will no longer be the case.” And she went on to explain how candidates were trained, how they were made Tranquil and then released, and what her intentions for the Order were.

They knew very little about the Seekers, and there were many questions, some aggressively challenging; she answered them all as honestly as she could. In the end, when the stew was ready, Olek forbade them to question her any more. “Let our guest eat in peace,” he said.

They did not ask about the Seekers again afterwards, but there was a telling of tales around the fire, and clearly she was expected to share her own stories, and so she did so, giving at their request an account of the ending of Corypheus. The Wilders had begun to drink by then, and the questions and comments devolved into particulars about the habits of Orlesians and Qunari anatomy and her personal relationship with the Inquisitor and other such things until Cassandra was very glad that darkness had fallen and her blushes were, she hoped, invisible.

She had accepted a little mead and nursed it in her cup through the evening, refusing the much more potent Wildwine that the Chasind drank. She had tried to suppress her unease and impatience; Olek would speak of Trev eventually, though obviously it was not likely to be tonight. She was very tired, but she did not want to be impolite, and as a guest she knew that she was expected to provide entertainment for the evening. Such tests of courtesy could well determine what she would learn of her lover.

Eventually the Wilders began to disperse, leaving her alone with Olek, and she stood, bowing to him. “I thank you for your hospitality.”

“Do not go quite yet,” he said softly. “Sit.”

She sat. He said nothing for a moment, staring into the fire; she could see the light flickering in his eyes. “She passed through many weeks ago, and we shared food,” he said finally. “She stayed for several days. Sometimes she spoke with me, and sometimes she spoke with the gods. She is looking for her path. Some might seek to show her what it is, but that is dangerous for her. The choices must be hers.

“You cannot choose for her, but you can help her to choose freely. I think that you are strong enough to do that, or I would not help you. When she left us she headed west, on a road that should have easily taken her to the Avaar, with a map we provided. She wished beyond anything to find their Augur and seek his help. If she did not arrive it is because something turned her. I will give you the same map, so that you may follow.”

“Thank you,” said Cassandra faintly. This was confirmation of the worst; somehow Trev had come to harm.

She would not believe that Trev was dead. She would not.

“She is not dead,” said the old man, putting out a hand to touch her knee. “We dreamed together, and I would know. Now I cannot dream with her, but perhaps you can.”

She believed him. She desperately wanted to believe him. “What do you mean?”

Olek was unfastening a pouch on his belt, and taking out a tiny metal flask. “The gods taught us to dream with them,” he said. “But some dream without the gods’ assistance; your lover is one of them. Even with the blessings of the gods it is dangerous for those who are untrained; she is at great risk. I think, though, that perhaps the Seekers know something of such dangers. Take a sip of this tonight, just one, and you may find her in dreams.” He handed her the flask.

Cassandra stared at it. She knew what this was; she had heard of it. The Chasind shamans used an elixir of deathroot in order to dream with their gods, or at least that was what they believed they were doing. It took them into the Fade with a consciousness that allowed them to direct their actions. The shamans used it, she had heard, to learn from spirits and guide their choices when there were difficult decisions to make, and in times of starvation to learn where their hunters might find animals. It was indeed dangerous, and the thought of taking a potion like this, the thought of losing herself far further than would happen even with strong drink, of opening herself to spirits, was utterly terrifying, and against everything she believed.

But she must find Trev. She would risk anything to find Trev. She nodded her thanks, and put the flask in her pouch.

*        *        *

 _There are animals; they come and go. There’s a snake, or is it a dragon? No, too small, too slender. Something coiling, something with fangs, impossible to hold, clenching and releasing, sliding like smoke in her hands, winding around her, dropping, down to her ankle and then away._ No, _it says._ No. Stay away. I will not allow this. _No, it’s not a snake, those are not the eyes of a snake. They are strange eyes, they’re the eyes of a halla._ You cannot catch me. You cannot touch me. If I run I can outrun you. I will always outrun you. Don’t try to follow. _The sound of hooves, fading into darkness. Where is Trev?_

_It’s very dark. There are towers. This is Skyhold. No, it’s not. It is Orlais. No. It’s the Necropolis. Anthony should be here. Where is Anthony?_

_There is something beside her in the darkness, something very big. It brushes against her, and she feels a deep, sick fear beyond anything she has ever known, the touch of mindless panic, the echoes of a small creature who knows there is no escape from what comes. Is she in a forest or a cave? She can’t tell. There’s a tiny red fire reflecting. It’s an eye. There’s a glint of teeth and claws._ You should not have come here _, it says. She sees the claws reaching and cannot move. Something touches her. There is pain. It’s worse than the pain she felt so many years ago when the dragon’s bolt caught her. She cries out. She dissolves; she is only pain. She is only a voice, shrieking. There is nothing more._

It doesn’t have to hurt, _says a different voice, urgently_. Cassandra, it doesn’t have to hurt. _But that voice fades, disappears._

Do you think that you can avoid pain? _says the claw that runs the length of the scar on her face, opening it to the bone_. No. Pain is truth, Seeker. There is nothing else. You know that. And you have not even begun to feel my teeth. _The claw slides down her neck, across her shoulder, there’s more than one claw. She feels each one distinctly. They trace lines on her skin, they slice through her_. It is your fault. _She feels her flesh peeling from her in tatters_. Do you think that I will let you go? No. Not when you can give me so much pleasure. And I can give you so much more than pain. _The agony shifts, becoming something else, something that twists her, stops her breathing, something that makes her feel better than she has ever felt in life._

 _It is terrible. It is_ wrong. _Now there’s another voice, and another. She cannot make out what they are saying. They’re talking about pain, and that it can all be over, if you just let go_. Let go. We will take care of you. You know that is what you want, don’t you?

No, _she thinks_. No. Where is Trev? Stop it. I will not allow this. She forces herself to move, to step back.

_There’s movement like the flick of a fish’s tail, and the not-pain is gone. It leaves behind a strange numbness, a lack of sensation. She can’t tell whether there is flesh on her bones or not. She looks down; she can see herself now. She seems to be whole. She seems to be dressed in her usual clothes, in armour. The eye is not red anymore; it is almost white. It’s cold and opaque. It’s the eye of something dead, floating in water. Perhaps it’s the eye of a great fish, or a dragon. She cannot see anything but the eye itself, though she can feel something solid under her hand. There is water below her feet. No, she is standing in water up to her waist. It’s so cold. She can’t feel her legs. It smells of death and sorrow. Is she in the Fallow Mire? There were so many dead things there. It was so cold there, worse than Emprise, for one was never dry, and fires drew more dead things, so one could never rest._

Let go. There is no point. _There’s a chorus of voices, all saying the same thing._

Hold on, _says the other voice, the one that seems warm and alive._

You cannot hold, _argue the voices. The eye is going black. It’s still opaque. It’d wild and mad. The water is turning blue. The water is sky._ You cannot hold me, _says a mad voice_. Hold me. Set me free. Hold me. _There is a flurry of feathers sharp as razors. She feels them slice across her fingers, flinches._

_There is nothing. Her hands are empty._

_There is nothing around her but void. She hears footsteps walking into being. There is a light, a small one._ I want to help, _says the warm voice_. But it’s hard. I am too real now. I can’t come to you. _She sees the taper in the hand, flickering. She sees the shadow_.

Cole, _she says_.

_The light catches his face. He bends and sets the taper to a pile of kindling, and now there is a fire. The coals give warmth. She moves closer. She can move again._

I told her she should stop thinking she was a spirit. She didn’t hear me. She might hear you. She needs to start being real again.

She is not a spirit, _Cassandra says. She is full of rage. She hopes she is speaking the truth. She does not know what Trev is anymore._ What are you doing here?

I want to help. _That refrain that she never expected to hear again. It does not appease her._

I know the difference now, _he says_. She thinks she’s a spirit, but she thinks she doesn’t think she’s a spirit. They trapped her. I can’t keep them away. Especially that one.

They? That one?

You can help, _he says. He is beginning to fade_. Hold on, _he says, and is gone._

*        *        *

She woke early in the morning, her mouth tasting of sour ashes and a pain deepening the line between her eyes, so tired that she might not have slept.

 _Cole?_ What in the Maker’s name did Cole have to do with this? She found herself unspeakably distressed. He was with her in the Fade, in her _dreams_. It had been bad enough when he was there in person, reading her thoughts. Was she never to have privacy from his intrusions?

 _He wants to help_ , she told herself, and stifled her reflexive reaction to thinking those words.

She gathered her things together—it seemed far more difficult than usual, and she kept getting distracted and forgetting what she was doing—lowered them in the basket, and descended the ladder.

Olek was by the fire; for all she knew he had never left it. He squinted at her, his eyes lively. “You dreamed,” he said.

“I don’t know what it meant,” she said, and held out the flask for him to take.

“You will in time.” He handed her a knotted string.


	22. Frostback Basin

The land became rougher as she rode, and the tracks less clear, but the main routes were still obvious enough, and with Olek’s map she was able to avoid getting lost, at least for any length of time. She rode slowly, trying to watch the sides of the trail for disturbance. It was difficult; apart from the small side trails, there were many game trails, and what was a game trail but a disturbance of the undergrowth? The trees were thick, and she could not see far into the forest. It would be so easy to ride past someone who was injured or ill.

No. Trev would not have gone into the forest if she was injured or ill; she would have stayed on the track to be found.

Unless she was running from an enemy.

She could not worry about that. Most of the Wilders Cassandra met were friendly, or at least accepting of her presence. Once or twice she encountered groups who seemed hostile and faded into the trees at her approach; she was watchful afterwards, but they did not follow or attack her. Perhaps she seemed too formidable in her armour; perhaps they recognized the Seeker tabard; perhaps word had travelled that she was under the protection of an important clan. If so, the same word would have gone out about Trev, and that was a hopeful thought.

She did not have Olek’s liquor to help her dream now, but the dreams came anyway, strange and disjointed and disturbing. The voices slid through them, sly and subtle. The animals were there constantly, slipping in and out of focus, biting, tearing, evading, but there was no sign of Trev.

Cole was there sometimes, but he was even less tangible and made little sense. His presence, so intrusive and elusive and ultimately unhelpful, drove her to fury. Surely if he was becoming real he could also begin to make more _sense_? Surely Maryden would teach him to _communicate_?

On reflection, given that the woman spoke primarily in rhymes and metaphors, perhaps not.

“You are not helping!” she shouted at him once. “Just tell me where she is!”

He lowered his strange eyes, looking stricken, and she felt a familiar pang of guilt. “I can’t,” he said. “I’m there and she’s _there_ , except when we’re here, and it’s not the same.”

She shut her eyes. It didn’t make any difference; she could still see him. Another reason to hate the Fade.

There were few Wilder villages, but she was able to buy some supplies from them as she passed. The horse found plenty of grass, and every time she spotted one of the occasional scattered patches of grains she made a point of allowing it to graze. She augmented her own supplies with nuts and berries, thankful that they were plentiful, and the occasional animal taken by a snare. It was not entirely enough, and she knew she was getting thinner. But what she had would sustain her; she would come to no harm in the long run, though she felt as if she was being pared down to bone and sinew, or a persistent flame. She was more worried about Trev. The Inquisitor knew how to live off the land, but when winter came—no. She would find Trev before then.

“It plays with its food,” Cole said. “That gives you time. But not much.”

“The thing with claws?” she asked. Every night she felt them; she thought it was trying to drive her away, but she was stubborn. Pain would not stop her.

“It takes her and lets her go and then takes her again,” he said. He was beginning to fade. “Sometimes it has claws. Sometimes she has claws. The claws defy, defend, destroy. The gold helps. Hurry.”

She was coming out of the Wilds now, moving into higher land; the trees were smaller and thinning, and there were open spaces and bare rock. It was cooler at night.

“The bear has her,” Cole said. “It keeps her warm. It’s used to this.”

“Is the bear the thing that claws me?”

“No, the bear is real,” he said, sounding surprised. “Don’t hurt it. But put on your armour. You need it.”

“I am wearing my armour,” said Cassandra, bewildered. She might be dreaming, but she was not fool enough to dream without her armour. It was just that it did not stop the claws.

Cole put out his hand. It was impossible to touch in dreams, except when it was possible, and that was entirely unpredictable. His fingers slid through the metal on her gauntlets and touched her wrist. They felt warm.

“Maybe it would be better if you took it off,” he said, frowning, and faded away.

 _I am going to kill him_ , thought Cassandra.

*        *        *

She had reached the edge of the lands of the Avaar, she thought, though she had seen no one. It had been days since she had seen any Wilders. The path had faded into a narrow track that was hard to follow over the stony ground; it led over a range of foothills toward the high mountains.

And then she came over a ridge and found it leading down again, into a deep, narrow valley. She could see forest, though not as thick as in the Wilds, and a few open places near a river. She swore quietly to herself. She’d been able to travel more quickly on the open lands, for she could see better and was not so afraid of passing an incapacitated Trev without noticing; this would slow her again. With luck the trail would simply cross the valley as directly as was possible.

It did not. When she reached the bottom it turned to follow the river, which at this time of year was really more of a stream. She looked carefully to be sure, but no. There were no other trails save the one that led toward the headwaters.

After some time she spotted a small open meadow and took note of it, for it was getting late in the day; if she found nothing else she could return here to camp so that her horse would have good grazing. But then, looking across it, she saw movement. There was already a horse in the meadow. Her own horse snorted, and there was a whicker in return, and then it returned to its foraging.

It was a black horse. Her stomach tightened. She looked around and saw no sign of anyone.

She dismounted, untied a short length of rope, found the last small handful of grain in her saddlebag, and set her own horse free to graze, reins knotted on his neck. She began to walk slowly toward the black, her hand outstretched, talking to it soothingly. It was a mare. That was right. What had Trev called her horse?

“Reaver,” she said, and the horse lifted its head and looked at her. “There’s a good girl, Reaver. Come and get some grain. What a beautiful horse you are. What a beauty.” The mare had a halter, but no other tack. She was thinner than she should have been, but not starving. Now Cassandra saw that the grasses were trampled and fairly well grazed over; the black had been here for some time, or there had been more horses.

The mare took a step or two forward and snuffled the grain out of her hand. She caught the halter, and when the horse was finished fastened the rope to it. She whistled for her gelding, which ambled over and nosed her captive amiably.

It was a black mare with an off-centre star; Trev had a black mare with an off-centre star. That did not mean that it was _her_ black mare; it could be an escapee from anywhere, one that had strayed or been lost in battle. But if it had been lost in battle there would have been tack. No, this horse had been stripped of harness and perhaps set free to wander. There was no way to know if it was Trev’s.

Or was there? Cassandra scratched behind one ear, looking closely at the mane. And there—

Yes. This was Trev’s horse. There was a small braid, just behind the ear but out of the way of halter and bridle, almost unnoticeable; something Trev gave all the horses she rode. Cassandra had caught her at the braiding when they were in the Hinterlands, early on in their acquaintance, before they had really become friends, and asked why she did it; it was the sort of fanciful attention that people usually only gave their mounts when preparing for some special, formal public occasion. Until then Trev had seemed very businesslike and unromantic, but she had blushed and muttered that it reminded both the horse and herself that they were individuals. Cassandra had said no more about it; but it had roused a kind of astonished fondness in her that made her notice the Herald as she had not noticed her before.

Now Cassandra did not know if the surge of emotion she felt was relief—she was close!—or terror—why was Trev not with her horse? It was most likely a combination of both.

She searched the edges of the meadow carefully, but there was no sign of a camp. Wherever Trev was, it was not here. She tied the black to her own horse with the rope and rode on. She had seen no sign of Trev yet; likely the mare had returned from further along to a place where she could graze. She rode slowly, scanning the ground to either side of the trail for any sign of her lover, but saw none.

The track became progressively rougher and steeper, to the point that she began to worry that she had taken a wrong turn somewhere. But it was still passable for a horse if she dismounted and led it. If she had not taken a wrong turn, the track probably led to a narrowing of the river and a bridge, not necessary at this time of year but vital when the river was in full spate.

The bridge was a surprisingly well-built edifice wide enough to take a cart, laid on the trunk of a great fallen tree lying between two small bluffs. The stream was far enough below that it would not be threatened by high water. The trunk had been hacked to a rough flatness, and there were no side railings, but it was certainly wider than many of the bridges they had crossed and not particularly alarming. But there her horse balked and shivered and would not be driven forward, and the black mare was pulling back too.

There was a shadow on the far side of the bridge under the trees. It did not move, but it did not seem to be a natural thing. Cassandra turned back a little ways, dismounted and tied the horses to a tree, afraid that they would run in fear if left loose, then walked toward the bridge.

The shadow lifted its head, and she realized that it was a great bear, and her sword was in her hand and her shield raised before she realized it. This was not good; she could probably overcome it alone, but not without a considerable chance of taking harm herself. Yet she needed to cross the bridge, and did not want to return to a place where she could ford the stream, as that could well mean bushwhacking for some distance to find the trail again, assuming she could. Perhaps she could drive it off without engaging it.

She walked slowly forward, banging her sword against her shield. The bear surged to its feet, letting out a moan, but did not otherwise move. “Begone!” she shouted. “Do not trifle with me, bear, or I will wear your skin!”

The moan achieved an irritated and somewhat petulant quality that she had not expected. She stopped. The bear did not charge. It took three steps forward out of the shadows and stopped as well, its brown fur almost golden in the sunlight.

The tip of Cassandra’s sword dropped a little. Could it be—? One bear looked much like another to her, but this one seemed familiar. It was the right colour. And now that it was in the light she could see that there was a particular scar on its nose… “Storvacker?”

The bear groaned again, sat, and licked a paw thoughtfully, then stood again and looked at her expectantly.

“Storvacker,” said Cassandra hesitantly, “do you know where the Inquisitor is?”

The bear huffed, and turned, then looked back over her shoulder. The signal could not have been clearer. Cassandra sheathed her sword and slung her shield on her back and followed.

Storvacker led her a little way along the trail and then off it, moving down between the trees toward the stream and a place where enormous boulders had broken away from the bluff above. Cassandra suddenly realized that she was seeing a jumble of riding gear, saddlebags and other goods, strewn carelessly around. It was Trev’s saddle; she recognized the leatherwork. There was a crudely constructed firepit, with ashes; she felt them. Cold and damp. This was Trev’s campsite. These were Trev’s belongings, though not arranged with the care Trev always took. Where was Trev?

Storvacker moaned at her again, and Cassandra realized that there was an opening between the rocks beneath the bluff, a low entrance that was more than the simple crack it appeared to be. The bear disappeared into the crack. She knelt before it and looked in. The ground was thick with leaf litter and other debris, drifted by the wind, and was surprisingly soft.

She could see nothing.

She crawled a little further forward; there was a twist, a turn in the crevice, and then it opened out a little more. There was something more, between her and the bear, now only a warm dark shadow; after the daylight she was half blind in the dimness of the little cave. She reached out and her hand touched cloth and she moved it a little and felt the edge of leather.

A leg.

“Trev,” she said, and felt herself coming apart.

Her eyes had begun to adjust to the darkness. The Inquisitor was in a kind of nest made of leaves and debris, curled into herself. Storvacker grunted and licked her ear; Trev did not respond. Cassandra scrambled forward, her hands searching, searching. They found the bare skin of Trev’s neck. It was cool, but not the deathly cold of a corpse. She could feel a pulse, slow against her palm.

She was alive.

“Trev,” she said again, shaking her gently. But there was no response.

She must be careful and not make mistakes. She must do things properly. She must not let her fear override her. Cassandra crawled out of the cave and found flint and tinder and dry twigs and set a small fire with shaking hands. It was not laid carefully and would not last, but that did not matter. She found a candle stub in a pouch and lit it with a taper, and then crawled back into the cave. There was a little ledge; she set the stub in hot wax, well away from the leaf litter, which was very dry. She could see a little better now.

Storvacker had not moved; she lay behind the Inquisitor, Trev’s back against her. The bear’s eyes glinted in the candlelight; she laid her head on her paws and regarded Cassandra as she began to examine Trev, looking for injuries.

She found none. She paid particular attention to Trev’s head, thinking she might have taken a blow there, but there was nothing. Her lover was not wearing the artificial arm. She was filthy and stank, and was very thin under her ragged clothing, which she did not seem to have changed for weeks, but there was no sign that she had come to physical harm. She simply could not be roused. Cassandra took the candle down and looked more closely; Trev’s eyes were moving, under her eyelids. She was dreaming. But what kind of sleep was it when the sleeper could not be awakened?

Cassandra sat back on her haunches and thought. She must make camp here, and try to find out what had happened to Trev. But the horses would not, could not, tolerate the bear. “You are causing me problems,” she said. “The horses do not like you, but I must keep them safe.” Storvacker gave a short, sardonic moan. She blew the candle out and crawled out of the cave.

She could leave them in the meadow where she had first found Trev’s mare. Her own would not stray, and Reaver was unlikely to leave her. It was not ideal—she disliked leaving them so far from her camp—but it would have to do.

She unsaddled her gelding and took their leads in her hand, retracing her steps back down the roughest parts of the trail until she could mount and ride bareback the last of the way to the meadow. It was partly shielded from the trail by a row of trees, so the horses would not be immediately obvious to travellers, at least those who travelled by foot; she had only noticed it because she was looking for places for her horse to graze, looking for Trev. She took Blue’s bridle and the lead rope, leaving them with only their halters. “Stay here and eat,” she said firmly, and they were already grazing as she left them.

When she got back to the campsite she checked quickly in the cave—neither Trev nor Storvacker seemed to have moved—and then gathered enough wood to last the night, lighting a proper fire this time. There were plenty of fallen branches beneath the trees, so it didn’t take long. After that she tried to put the campsite into better order, gathering Trev’s belongings and setting them with her own.

Trev was not as methodically precise as she was in setting out her gear in camp, but she was careful, so that everything was to hand if needed. But this did not look like a camp Trev had set out; some things had been carelessly unpacked and not put away again and others had never been unpacked at all; her bedroll was still attached to her saddle. Her saddle had been carelessly dropped beside a log, rather than carefully laid on it; she moved it beside her own. She found the artificial arm by the same log, half invisible under fallen leaves and beginning to show signs of rust. She shook it free of debris as best she could and moved it into the shelter of the cave. She could try to clean and oil it later.

The cooking pot sat by the side of the fire, and had not been cleaned recently. Even Trev’s water flask was empty. There was no food in her saddle bags. There were, however, some small bones, picked clean, near the fire. There were scattered feathers. Oddly, there were also branches, not old dry ones, but branches that had recently been alive, that had been ripped from their trees and bushes. Or… she looked more closely, picking one up. The end seemed to have been _chewed_. There were still a few berries on the branch she held, and she realized that the larger branches were from a nut tree.

Storvacker must have been bringing Trev food.

And that meant, she realized, that Trev had been awake, at least some of the time, but not able to hunt or forage for herself. She was not quite certain what that implied. Was some invisible injury preventing her? Or was it something else?

She lit the candle and crawled back into the cave. Trev had moved, a very little; she was in a different position now, and it was possible to see the hand that had been curled under her. She was clutching something. Cassandra tried to see what it was and could not—something made of metal? She tried to pull it from Trev’s grip, but even asleep, even thin and probably weak with hunger, Trev had a grip of iron. Cassandra brushed the debris away and moved the candle closer.

It was metal—as far as she could see, it was gold, made of links so fine they were almost lace, and occasionally a precious stone. From the size and what she could tell of the shape and the presence of clasps, it seemed to be a gorget. But this was not armour; it was too delicate to have the strength to provide any real protection. But it was beautiful. It must have been made to wear as jewellry.

Could it be enchanted? Was this the source of Trev’s problems? But she could sense the presence of lyrium, and this gave off not the slightest hint of it.

 _I do not know what to do_ , she thought. _I do not know how to wake her. Well. There are things I can do, whether or not I can wake her. She must drink, if I can get water into her safely. And if I can get water into her I can get broth into her._

Her water flask was at her hip; she unclipped it and opened it, then let a very little trickle into Trev’s mouth. She was very careful; it would not do to drown her lover. Trev’s throat moved; she was swallowing. _Yes_.

She let Trev’s head down again and went to check the fire. It had burned down into a good set of coals. She put jerky into her cooking pot with water and some herbs to make a broth, eating some of the dried meat with flatbread as she did so. She cracked the last of the nuts on the branches Storvacker had brought and ate half of them; she could find more tomorrow. She had passed quite a few nut trees as she had ridden up the valley.

She put broth in her metal cup to cool and gathered her own bedroll and Trev’s blankets, which she had shaken out to air, and put them in a corner of the cave. She hung her saddlebag with food from a high branch in a tree, out of the reach of predators.

Cassandra managed to get a little broth into Trev. It was not much, but it was better than nothing. Afterwards she put the lid on the cooking pot, which still had broth left in it, and contemplated what to do with it. The smell would attract animals; she could weight the lid with a rock, which would keep the smaller ones out, but that would not stop anything of any size. She could bring it into the cave to protect it—it could be put on a ledge out of the way—but that could attract a hungry animal into the cave with them.

On the other hand, nothing was likely to try much with Storvacker present. She put the pot in the cave and then stared at Storvacker, who had raised her head to watch. “I am trusting you to keep danger away from us,” she said. The bear grunted.

Trev was still in her boots; Cassandra pulled them off her feet, wrinkling her nose at the stench. The boots had gotten very wet and not been properly tended to. They were stiff and rough and likely no longer waterproof. Cassandra sighed. “What has happened to her?” she asked the bear. “She never lets her gear go in this way. She respects it and cares for it. Has she not been able to do so? Has she forgotten that she should?”

There was no answer. She had not expected one. She had spoken aloud only because Trev’s silence was so disturbing, so strange. “Look at her boots,” said Cassandra. “They will need to be cleaned and oiled more than once to restore them. Bear fat would be just the thing. I don't suppose you have any to spare?” Storvacker lifted a lip and showed a canine. “I didn't think so.”

The bear made a snorting sound that was amazingly like a laugh and put her head down.

Cassandra cleaned her teeth and put things away, set her armour carefully by the entrance to the cave and her sword just inside. She checked the fire; the coals were dying. She lit the candle and then filled the cooking pot and poured water from it on the coals and watched the steam rise into the darkening sky, fetched and poured more from the stream until the fire was properly out. She did not like to leave it burning when she was not beside it.

And then there was nothing more to do. She crawled into the cave for the final time, the candle casting a dim light. “I wish you could talk,” she said to the bear. “I think you understand better than I what is happening. I do not know what more to do.”

Storvacker huffed and came slowly to her feet, then stepped delicately over their legs and made her way out of the cave, turning as she did to nose Cassandra hard enough to knock her flat beside Trev, and then nosed her again, pushing her toward the Inquisitor, moaning.

“All right!” said Cassandra, putting an arm over her lover. Storvacker huffed affirmatively and backed out of the cave. Cassandra heard her settle with a groan and a rustle; evidently she had placed herself across the entrance.

She disentangled herself and stripped off her jerkin and boots, then spread the blankets, managing to roll Trev to get them under her. Then she blew out the candle and in darkness slid down beside the Inquisitor, pulling the rest of the blankets over them, and wrapped her arms around her lover, doing her best to tangle them together in the way they often cuddled. It felt strange because of Trev’s lack of response, but it also felt right.

 _She is so thin_ , Cassandra thought, and then, _I do not know what to do. I do not know what is the right thing to do, the best thing. I do not know how to save her from whatever has imprisoned her. I do not know if I can do anything, but if she sleeps I can sleep with her._

_And I can hold her._


	23. Holding On

_Shifting, sliding. All is darkness. She can see nothing, hear nothing but the sound of her own breathing, her own heartbeat. Something is moving beside her, something immense, uncoiling from sleep._

Hold on, _says Cole’s voice._

 _She reaches. There is nothing to hold on to, nothing to grasp. There is scaled water, flowing through her hands, but more muscular. There are no joints, no angles, only the supple turning coils._ Stop _. The voice is almost expressionless, but it is Trev’s voice._

 _Is the thing attacking Trev? Cassandra tries to hold it, so that Trev can escape, and fails. There is a moment when she thinks she has succeeded, but it convulses violently and she is flung away. It is too_ big _, and there is no beginning and no end to it. She cannot get a grip. She is frantic. She staggers to her feet and reaches again, feels something hard and unyielding, leaps. She wraps arms around it, wraps legs, feels long inhuman muscles flexing beneath her body._

Trev _, she thinks._ I want to help you. I don’t know how. Help me. Please.

No _, says a voice. This is not Trev; it is a voice she does not know, strange and sly and whispering. Is it the voice of the thing she holds? It must be._ She lies. Do not let her lie to you _. Who is it speaking to?_ Do not let her turn you. You do not have to believe her. There are other truths. _The coils thrash beneath her, battering her against themselves; she is thrown off again. It is too slippery to hold, too cold. She tries again nonetheless._

Trev!

She knows nothing. Do not let her trap you. Flee!

_There is movement under her hands. It is gaining speed, and she cannot hold. She falls. There is something glowing faintly. It is an eye, a cat’s eye, slitted and gleaming, passing. No, it is not a cat._

Hold on!

I cannot hold _, she thinks in agony._ I cannot. _Hands cannot grasp something so big, so overwhelmingly heavy, so violently determined to evade her._

No. I _will_ hold. I must keep it from harming Trev. _She flings herself at it again, catches a solid, coiling mass. She has wrapped arms and legs around it, applied all her strength. She cannot get purchase and loses her grip, and then it doubles back and her arms catch firm hold, for it is narrower in the neck. She feels the hard scales beneath her hands shudder. She has it now, a tenuous, chancy hold._

Hold on!

I can’t—

Stop her!

No!

I _will_ hold. Maker help me _. Something—someone—screams. The thing thrashes, but she does not lose her grip. She will not let go if it kills her._

She does not care for you _, says the strange voice, the insinuating voice. She does know this voice; it’s the thing in the dream Olek gave her, the thing that opened the scar on her face, the thing with claws. Who is it speaking to? She hears Trev moan, a reedy sound that breaks her heart._ She has set claws and teeth in you _, says the cunning voice._ I will help you escape. I will free you from her lies. She binds you because she wants to trap you. She wants to harm you. She does not care for you, she cares only for keeping you a prisoner. Look at how she attacks you now.

No! _thinks Cassandra, outraged._ It is not an attack. I only hold, to keep it from—

_That is when she realizes: the scaled thing is not attacking Trev. It is Trev. Trev is coiling, fleeing, all elusive, as she is all hard grip and stubborn determination._

She is strangling you! Do not let her hurt you! Fight back! Protect yourself!

_She feels coils come around her body, feels them begin to tighten. She cannot breathe._

Let go _, says the strange, cunning voice, self-satisfied._ You can save yourself if you release her. If you do not, she will kill you. I can make her kill you.

Hold on _, says Cole’s voice. That is the voice she trusts._

I will never let go.

Will you not? _It is a cruel voice. The coils tighten. She cannot breathe._ She does not want you. You trap her, steal the air from her lungs. Just like this _. She feels a rib snap, another; the pain is immense._ You give her nothing but pain. I can give her comfort and happiness.

Who are you?

I can give her what she needs. You can give her nothing.

 _She sets her teeth, the edges of her vision fading._ I will never let go.

_The coils tighten again, and for a moment she blacks out. When she comes to herself she is alone. She is in a forest, thick with trees. Is this part of the Wilds? The trees are very tall and their canopies are heavy, and the light is dim under them; only a few rays of sunlight penetrate this far. Even the Emerald Groves, with its giants, was not so dark as this. Is it part of the Brecilian Forest?_

_Her ribs are a ring of fire and she can feel herself panting with the pain, but she can force herself to breathe through it, force herself to calm. She looks around. It is very silent under the trees; there are no birds. It is unnatural._

_She is on a path; it forks before her, and she can see that a little further on each fork branches again. She looks behind; another fork. And beyond that, a crossroads. This is a maze of paths, with thick bushes between them, and the silent trees all round._

_There is something in the distance, something pale, a slight movement. She takes a step, and pain follows. It is manageable. She chooses a trail, and jogs forward. Her ribs jolt painfully, knives, and her vision hazes. She changes back to a walk._

_The forest is literally a maze. She takes one turn and finds herself going the wrong way, takes another and another. The pale thing seems to draw no nearer. She begins to get angry, and tries to force her way through the bushes. It’s difficult and slow and makes the pain worse, but she makes some progress._

_Those pale branches are not branches. They are the antlers of a halla, a great beast that gleams in the dim light. The animal looks at her as she emerges disheveled from the underbrush, its eyes strange and inhuman, and turns to run._

Chase _, says instinct, and she does._

 _There is no passing through bushes now; the halla runs on the trails, and so must she if she is to keep up. And she does keep up, just enough to see the turns it takes, so close but not close enough, though she does not seem to be able to quite catch it. She hurts dreadfully, every step and every breath a new wound. She can’t do this. She_ must _do this. She is tiring badly from the running, the constant pain. Surely the halla must be tiring too?_

 _It does not seem to be._ I will lose it _, she thinks desperately. She is angry, breathtakingly furious at the halla for evading her, for running, for leaving her behind._

Destroy her _, says a voice, cold and satisfied._ She deserves it. She is leaving you _._

No _, says another._ Just hold on _._

 _She can run faster than this. She_ will _run faster than this. She redoubles her efforts, feels her boots dig deep into dirt. She_ will _catch it._

_She can hear the halla’s breathing now, louder than her own, urgent and rasping. She can feel the thud of its heart beside her own. They are neck and neck on the narrow path. There is a fork in the trail ahead. She feels it begin to choose, and forces it the other way; the beast falters, and she is on it, an arm around its neck, the weight of her body bringing it down, the impact forcing a shout of pain from her._

Kill it _, says something inside her, rising red and fierce. There’s a knife in her belt, she could. It would take so little to kill it. The halla lies panting beneath her, she lies with her weight over it, hating its passivity, feeling the pulse of its life under her forearm. She does not move to take the knife, though everything in her is shrieking that she do so. She does not close the vice of her arm. It can breathe. She holds but does not suffocate, does not attack._

Let me go _, says a small voice, shaking. It sounds like Trev, but she has never heard Trev sound like this. The halla’s eyes are dark and bottomless. She could fall into them, into stars._

No.

I will do anything you want.

No.

Everything is wrong. If you let me go, it will be right again. Look, I have four strong legs.

Is it so wrong to wish to be whole? _says the strange voice, the sly one._ We all make bargains for our happiness. Who are you to forbid this to her?

Such a bargain is not fair _, says Cassandra._ It is all a lie _. She does not know quite what she means by that, but she knows it is important._

I can protect her as you cannot. You cannot begin to protect her, can you? You are a joke.

It doesn’t matter. She can protect herself.

 _Laughter, delighted laughter._ Fool _._

Let me go. Please. I will do anything you ask. I will become whatever you ask. There are so many pathways. Why do you insist on yours?

No.

Why do you want to hurt me? You always want to hurt me. You are cruel. You don’t care. _The voice is becoming stronger. It is becoming angry. The halla’s eyes are changing. They are no longer soft, liquid, strange. There is a red light in them, a fire burning, and they are hard as coal. Cassandra sets her grip more firmly and holds on._

 _The halla is no longer white. It has gotten dark, and fallen into shadows. No, the halla_ is _the shadows. This is black fur, not white. It’s longer, coarser. There are no antlers. Something surges to its feet, far, far bigger than she now, red eyes in black fur and the stench of carrion. Fangs glint._

_It is no longer a halla. It is a great bear, twice the size of any she has ever seen, far larger than Storvacker. It shakes violently, its pelt rippling, and she loses her grip and hits the ground hard. She is still scrambling to her feet when the paw strikes her. The claws are longer than her fingers. She feels a flare of agony and falls again, her left side laid open. She can feel wind rattle her ribs._

_It’s roaring now, an earthshaking sound that tries to strip the skin from her bones, all anger and hatred. It wants to kill her. She hurts, she is adrift in pain, bone grating on bone. She cannot think._

I can hold.

_She dodges the next blow somehow, darts behind the bear. It is enormous but slow-moving. She flings herself at the massive back, climbing, gripping its fur to pull herself up, and wraps arms around its neck. It whirls around but she does not lose her grip._

Kill her _, says the sly voice. It’s angry now._ If you do not she will kill you _. She does not know who it is talking to. She kills when it is necessary. She is a very good killer. But she does not kill when it is not necessary. She will not. She will hold._

_The bear is trying to reach her, to claw her, but it cannot. But it is also still trying to shake her loose, and that is harder to prevent. She digs heels into its ribs and tightens the grip of her arms. She is a shield fighter; she is strong. But she is in great pain, and can feel herself weakening from the wound it has torn in her side, from the broken ribs. She finds herself breathless with the effort of holding on, and wonders if a rib has punctured a lung._

You will die anyway _, says the voice._ Look at how you are bleeding. It will not be long now. You might as well let go.

Let go! _roars the bear, roars Trev._ I hate you. I never loved you. I will destroy you.

_She shuts her eyes and holds._

_The bear is running now. Branches lash her, the pounding of its steps drives the breath from her lungs. And then they are falling together, turning in a great wind._

_Water explodes around her, a froth of bubbles blinding her as she finally opens her eyes. They are sinking. The flesh and fur under her hands is changing, growing slippery. Her legs have no grip. There is a sour taste in her mouth, a slimy feeling moving like worms under her tongue. There is something dead here. The thing she clings to moves, and that is worse. It’s like being in the Fallow Mire._

Let go. Please. _It shifts obscenely, loathsomely, and her stomach heaves. She holds._

There is no point. There is nothing left to save. Do you think you can save something so broken? Do you think you can fix something so broken? You cannot. There is no point in trying.

_There is the sound of weeping. It is a small sound, hopeless, like the sound of a child or small animal that knows there is no help for their suffering. They are deeper now, and things are growing darker. Cassandra is holding her breath. She cannot breathe water. Surely they will begin to rise again soon. She cannot hold her breath much longer._

Don’t fight it. Just give in. Breathe. Let it take you. It will be over soon. The pain will end.

_She still hurts. It is so constant that it has become normal, but thinking of it makes it flare again. It is unbearable. She cannot live like this, with every nerve aflame, every movement agony._

Let go. Please. I cannot bear this.

Do you think that your own pain gives you rights over her? Let go. What justification have you to condemn her to this? _The voice is reasonable. She knows that it speaks the truth._ Breathe, and let her go.

No _. She sets her jaw and begins to fight. She is strong, even with a great weight dragging her down, even with the crippling pain. She will not drown. She swims, hard, kicking with her legs, ignoring the darkness creeping in from the edges of her vision. She will fight._

You cannot get to the surface in time. She will drag you down with her. Let go.

No _. She holds, and kicks against the dark water._

_She bursts into blue air, and sucks it into her lungs through her teeth. Something grey is in her hands, it looks like rotting meat, it looks like some great fish that has never seen the light of day; there are bones, a kind of carapace. It is shifting again, becoming narrow and easier to hold. It is white now, like the halla. But this is no halla._

_Wings beat against her ribs, bruising, agonizing. She tightens her grip. Pinions slash her already tattered flesh._

Let me go!

_There is an edge of desperation to the cry. As she surged from the depths, so this bird-thing surges into air, dangling her behind it. It is an immense swan, she thinks. The land is far below her now; if she falls she will die._

If you do not fall _she_ will die _, says the sly voice._ You will drag her down. She must kill you to save herself. Or you must give yourself to save her.

You lie. She flies up, she can fly down.

If she can remember that it is possible. _The voice is gloating._ Save yourself, _it cries, and she knows it is not speaking to her._ She will pull you to your death. She cares nothing for you. She will make you fall with her.

_The bird is panicked, flailing. They drop through columns of clear wind, surge up again when the wings catch air, falter again. She has a glimpse of a cold mad eye._

Let me go!

You will drag her down to her death.

You are weakening, if you believe that _, says Cassandra, and holds on. She hears a hiss of anger. Perhaps it is the bird, but she thinks not._

_They are tumbling now, tangled together. They fall forever, and then they are not falling. The impact was so great that she did not feel it. She cannot move. She is shattered. There is nothing but pain and blood and dissolution._

_The bird rises beside her, looming over her in her broken red vision. It is not a swan. It is immense._

Such an irony _, says the cunning voice happily,_ that one known as a great dragon-hunter shall fall in the end to her own prey.

You are mine _, says the dragon, bending over her, its jaws opening._

 _She still has one hand on it, gripping the end of a claw. Her hand is tiny on it, her grip is weak. It is a grip that could easily be broken. But she is holding on._ I will always be yours. Do you not know that? I am what I am. I cannot change _._

 _The dragon hesitates._ Kill her! _shrieks the voice._ Do it now before she can do you more harm!

_Lightning and ice and fire, an incandescence of pain, a glacier, a pyre. She remembers the lightning. She survived it once; so did Trev. She can do it again. She will do it again. She will survive it all, and so will Trev. The lightning peels the skin from her, runs inside and out; there is pain where she didn’t know it was possible to have pain. She holds on. Her ribs turn to ice and shatter; her heart lurches. She holds on. Her fingers turn to bone and ash. She holds on._

_There is nothing but pain. She forces herself to reach beyond it. She is losing herself in time, she is here, she is there. She remembers, one moment in many, a promise made._ You said that you would always return to me. Do it. Come back.

You are not even real _, says the dragon, contemptuously._ Do you think I do not know that?

I am myself. I am not pretending to be something else. I am here. I am beside you. Come back to me. You said that you would, when you left me. You promised.

No _, says the voice._ Do not listen!

No _, says the dragon._

I will let you go again if you ask me to, but you must return. You promised. _That_ was real. You promised.

No _, says Trev, uncertainly. Cassandra hears a faint and fading shriek of frustration._

Trev. Come back to me.

*        *        *

Trev was still in her arms. She could feel her breathing in the darkness. She was warm. There were both still breathing. It was more than she had expected.

Trev was in her arms, but every muscle in her body was set like stone, and her breathing seemed tentative and reluctant. “I am here,” Cassandra said. She felt as if she had been screaming for hours, or had never used her voice before. “You are safe, Trev.”

There was silence for what seemed a very long time, and Trev did not relax. “Am I?”

“Yes.” She shifted, loosening her grip, disentangling herself. “Let me get a light.”

It did not take long to light enough of a fire to catch the wick of the candle. She brought it back into the cave. Storvacker lay a little distance from the entrance, watching her; she seemed calm and relaxed. Trev did not seem to have moved during her absence; only her eyes shifted, watching, reflecting the light. Cassandra set the candle on its ledge and then sat beside her on the blankets. She did not reach for Trev, though she wanted to. The Inquisitor was as still as a small animal wary of predators. Cassandra looked at her, and waited.

“I am not entirely convinced that you are real,” said Trev, after a little, her gaze unwavering. “This is not the first time I have seen you. That I have been offered—” she stopped. “I am not certain you are even still alive.”

“After I received your last letter from Denerim I knew something was very wrong,” said Cassandra. “I have followed you across half Thedas and back again. I assure you that I am here, and very much alive. As are you, though I must admit that you do not entirely smell like it.”

Trev blinked.

“I am myself,” Cassandra said gently. “But I do not know how to prove that to you.”

“I do not know how you can, either,” said Trev eventually, her tone brittle. “I know that I’ve been living a dream. I know that I’ve been in the Fade. Maybe I still am. It was very real, and I couldn’t always tell the difference, and I couldn’t find a way to stay in the world. This may be a dream too.” She made an effort to sit up. She was clearly very weak, and struggled. Cassandra started to put out a hand to help her, and then stopped herself.

Trev, having achieved a sitting position, put her arms around her knees and let her head hang. “It was a demon, wasn’t it?” she said.

“I think so.”

“But not entirely,” Trev said bleakly. “It couldn’t have taken me if—I can’t tell how much was the demon and how much was just me. I think it was both.” Cassandra could not see her eyes. She tried to think. She was not good at this sort of thing at the best of times, and now—

“How did you find me?” said Trev.

That was easier to answer. “I made a guess for your route to the Avaar and tried to intercept you. It was wrong, but Asher forwarded your letters, so I went to Ostagar and then came after you into the Wilds. The Wilders told me of you, gave me maps. One shaman gave me something to make me dream, and I dreamed of Cole. After that I dreamed of a thing with claws—it was the demon, I think. And more of Cole. He couldn’t tell me where you were, but he told me you were in danger. He tried to help. And then I found Storvacker, and she led me to you.”

“Storvacker!”

“She’s outside. Should I call her?”

Trev just stared at her, so Cassandra twisted around and called. The bear did not come all the way into the cave, just far enough to nudge Trev, who laid shaking hands on her. “I think that she kept you alive,” said Cassandra. “She was certainly keeping you warm, and she brought you food.”

“I thank you,” said Trev, sounding dazed. Storvacker grunted amiably and backed out of the cave.

“If I am still dreaming,” said Trev blankly, “it is certainly a very _odd_ dream.”

“Perhaps all you can do is behave as if it is real,” said Cassandra, “until you are sure.”

Trev looked up at that. “And watch you, and everyone else, every second, looking for a flaw in the facade? That would be _so_ much fun for everyone.”

_It would destroy us._

“If you ask me to let you go, I will let you,” said Cassandra eventually. It was the hardest thing she had ever had to say. “Would a demon do that?”

“It might, if it was playing with me like a cat with a mouse.” There was a moment of hesitation, and her voice became hard. “And you _wouldn’t_ let me go, earlier, when I asked.”

Cassandra grunted in frustration. “That was—I will always let you go. I just want to know that you are yourself, and safe, before you go.”

“And who decides if I am me?” Trev asked bitterly. “Will you always pin me down and examine me to ascertain if that is the case? Will you call a templar to check me for an infestation of demons?”

Cassandra said nothing for a moment. That was the question, wasn’t it? Who makes the choice? _I will never stop holding you, but it is in my heart that I must do it. I will never give up, never, but I must trust_. “It is for you to decide,” she said.

“And if I say that I am myself and want to leave this minute?”

Cassandra swallowed. “Then you are free to do so. Your gear is outside. You should take half my food. More than half; you have been starving. Your horse is down the valley, in a meadow with mine. If you leave, I will go back to Vérité and pray that you come to me there.”

“And if I choose not to return to you?” The line of Trev’s mouth was hard.

She could barely breathe. This was all the pain she had felt in the dream, and more. “I will still let you go.”

“Will you?” The cynicism was plain.

“Yes,” said Cassandra, taking a breath. The pain would stop, some day. She was sure of it. She would not weep. “I do not want to keep you a prisoner, Trev. I do not want to be the one who says who you are. I do not want to make choices for you. I will always let you go if you ask me to. I cannot promise that I would not come to your aid again, even against your will, if I thought you were in danger, because I love you and I want to keep you safe. But I will let you choose your own pathway, as you let me choose mine. If we did not allow this, what is between us would be a lie. I will always love you, but I will not lie to you. We must have truth between us, or we will have nothing. You know this. I cannot accept anything else, and I do not think you can either.”

There was nothing more she could say. That she had found words to say at all was a miracle.

Trev looked at her for a moment and then shut her eyes and sighed. When she opened them again some of the tight guardedness had gone from her expression. “I cannot imagine anyone but you being so insufferably righteous about the truth while telling me they loved me,” she said. “Certainly not a demon.” She looked down at her hand; the gorget was still clutched in her fingers. She stared at it for a moment, and then carefully set it aside.

And then she put out her hand and let it rest lightly on Cassandra’s. “I think you are my Seeker.” And then Cassandra felt Trev’s fingers close, abruptly tight.

Holding on.

* * *

_Dorian, it’s me. Everything is all right. Cassandra found me._

 


	24. EPILOGUE: Vérité

“You are so beautiful,” said Trev. There was something in her tone that was reverent and wistful all at once.

Cassandra touched the gorget at her throat self-consciously. “I feel like a silly chicken wearing swan’s feathers.”

“Oh, no,” said Trev, who was smiling now. “You are magnificent. I knew that this would be perfect for you.”

They were dressing in their finery for the Satinalia feast. The cooks of Vérité had been working for days, and since Cassandra and Trev had arrived the day before they had redoubled their efforts. “She is too thin!” the head cook had said of Trev, outraged. “Both of you are!” And it was true. Though the Inquisitor had gained quite a bit of weight in the time it took them to get back to the keep, she still had a lean, honed look to her that was not entirely comfortable.

Cassandra grunted dismissively, embarrassed. But in truth she knew perfectly well that the gorget suited her. In truth she had chosen to wear the burgundy jerkin, the embroidered shirt that was so dark a purple as to be almost black except when the light caught the fine weave and the golden thread of the embroidery on cuffs and high collar, because she had known perfectly well that they would set the gorget off beautifully—and she knew that Trev knew it.

She knew that she was impressive; she knew that she was handsome. She was not used to having the word _beautiful_ applied to her. Trev called her beautiful, of course, and meant it, but Trev was biased.

It was not often that she _felt_ beautiful.

“And you are not just beautiful,” said Trev, getting to her feet and advancing with a predatory air. “You are quite astonishingly _desirable_.”

And now she knew she was blushing. “You are a terrible woman.”

“Yes, I am,” said Trev, “and I plan to make it very clear exactly how I feel about you,” and put her hand on the back of Cassandra’s neck and kissed her, long and leisurely.

“I am sorry that I have only last year’s gift for you,” she said softly when she lifted her mouth from Cassandra’s. “I feel like you’ve been cheated.”

“I do not feel cheated,” said Cassandra, who was feeling distinctly flushed and more than a little distracted. “And I had only last year’s gift for you, as well.”

“But it came with interest,” said Trev, grinning, “I think that the kittens probably count as a gift for this year, don’t you think?”

“They have been claimed by the children,” said Cassandra. “You will have a fight on your hands if you wish to recover them.” In her absence Carlyle had preemptively given one kitten to each of the youngest apprentices and one each to herself and Castor, and if anyone had disagreed with her actions they had not had the courage to object, which did not surprise Cassandra in the least.

“No,” said Trev. “I will leave them be; they are settled and happy. Handful is enough, and more.” She walked to the bed, where the little cat was curled up, and sat down beside her and stroked her, her face softening. Handful looked up, purring. They had had to fight to cuddle together on the previous night; she might be small but Handful was stubborn when it came to claiming space between them. Now that they were back she seemed determined to have at least one of them in her sight at all times, and preferably both within reach.

It had been a slow trip back to Vérité, especially at the beginning. Trev had been very weak at first, and it was not easy for her to travel. But they had not been so far from Stone Bear Hold, in the end; she was able to ride, and Storvacker led them there on narrow trails. Cassandra had for the most part walked at her stirrup, partly for fear of Trev falling and partly because she could not bear to be further away.

They had stayed in the Hold as welcome guests for almost a month while Trev built up her strength. During that time Cassandra had hunted with the Avaar, and conversed about many things with Svarah; Trev had rested and tried to recover herself. When she could she worked intensively on cleaning and restoring the condition of the artificial arm, which had needed a great deal of attention. It would have been logical to return to Denerim, so that Dagna could have a go at it, but she made it clear that this was not an option. “I want to go home,” she said.

It had been difficult for her. She was emotional and reactive, and at first her grasp on the border between dreams and waking was tenuous. She reacted with easy anger if Cassandra fussed over her, but at the same time she seemed to want the Seeker close enough to touch, to keep one hand on her, as if she was a talisman of solid reality. The pushing and pulling was confusing and sometimes infuriating, and Cassandra did not know how to respond to it. But always the echo in her mind said, _Hold on_.

In the end Trev had spent much of her time with the Augur. Cassandra, always uneasy about the Avaar’s relationship to the spirits that were their gods, was not sure what to think about this and did not want to enquire too closely. She knew that her training prejudiced her against Avaar customs, and that she could not set aside the distress that their practices caused her; they were dangerous, they were _wrong_. A demon had almost taken Trev from her, and there was not so much difference between a demon and a spirit. But there was Cole as an example to set against that belief; she tried to hold to that. And she also knew that if the Augur could help Trev, she would forgive him a great deal, and that this was Trev’s choice. She must let her walk the path she chose. And Trev was doing better. She still had nightmares sometimes, but not every night, and now they were nightmares and nothing more.

Trev had known perfectly well how she felt, and although she talked of what she was doing, she had spoken only in reassuring generalities. But after the first week, she had said, “I may not have the Mark any more, but it seems that its legacy has left me a little more open to the Fade than most people are. I am learning how to protect myself.” Cassandra found things that she did not know were tense beginning to relax a little. And indeed, over the weeks they spent at the hold Trev seemed to become far more settled in her skin, in herself.

After they left Stone Bear Hold they hurried; winter was coming and the snows high in the mountains already made it difficult for the horses. Cassandra was uncertain whether they could make it back before the roads to Vérité closed entirely, and pushed as hard as she dared. Trev seemed content for the most part to let her set the pace, though if she tired too much she could become sullen and stubborn about moving.

Trev’s moods were still unpredictable; she was sometimes cheerful and lighthearted and open, and sometimes moody and morose. Sometimes she looked out at the world with pleasure and sometimes she turned entirely inwards and there was nothing but bleakness in her eyes.

But it was better than it had been. When she had first left Vérité there had been something, some unspecified discontent, some unhappiness or pain, that was no longer there. Cassandra was not sure if it was the time she had spent travelling or the time spent with the Augur, but she seemed a little more settled. If she was still unhappy—and sometimes she clearly was—she seemed at least to have begun to find some kind of understanding and accommodation of it.

In Nevarra City they stopped overnight with Vestalus, who greeted Trev with warmth and considerable relief. That seemed to lighten Trev’s mood significantly, and the effects lasted for some time. The horses Cassandra had left with her uncle were in good condition and ready to travel, so now they could change mounts regularly and keep their speed up. Cassius had been as efficient as ever, and when they left they were well provisioned. They were lucky, and the weather favoured them. And so they were able to make good time on the last leg of their journey, and finally came to Vérité in the vanguard of a bad storm. Cassandra thought she had rarely been as thankful as when they had passed all snow-crusted through the gate in the new walls of the keep.

Dorian had sent word to their friends, assuring them that all was well, but there would need to be letters written, long ones, now that they had returned to Vérité. And there was a great deal to catch up on; life had not stopped while Cassandra was away. She would need to have meetings with Clarence and Carlyle, and soon. The latter had already found her, and made it clear that she had a great deal to talk about, and a number of questions and complaints saved up. “Emery couldn’t answer them all,” she had said very seriously and firmly. “Or wouldn’t. I’m not sure which. But I expect you will.”

But that was for tomorrow. Today was Satinalia, and in a very little while the feast would begin.

Trev did not look as if she was in a celebratory mood. She still had a smile on her face as she stroked Handful, but it was a small one.

“You seem melancholy,” said Cassandra tentatively. Trev glanced up.

“No, no. I am just thinking.” Cassandra looked at her without saying anything, and she sighed. “Ha. You know me too well.” She put out her hand, and Cassandra went to her and sat beside her on the bed.

Trev’s hand was warm in Cassandra’s, calloused and strong. “I don’t know what to say,” she said finally.

Cassandra squeezed her fingers. “Whatever it is, you know that I will hear you.”

“You will, won’t you? It’s just that I don’t understand it myself, so I can’t think how to explain.” She sighed and was silent again.

“It has been over a year,” she said finally. “I left to find out who I am now, and I still don’t know, after a year. I fell prey to a demon and spent far more time than is healthy in the Fade, and I don’t quite know how or why. I’ve done foolish things. I’ve done harm to others, and I can’t blame that on the demon. And after all of it I—” She stopped.

“I’m still not right,” she said finally. Then, as Cassandra opened her mouth, “It’s not as bad as it was. But it wasn’t all the demon. I’m not quite right. I’m not sure if I ever will be. Parts of me are—” She stopped again and gave a crooked grin.

“You are yourself,” said Cassandra firmly. “And I love you.”

Trev looked at her, and Cassandra thought for a moment that she was going to weep; but in the end she did not, though her fingers had tightened on her lover’s. “Yes,” she said finally, a breath only half audible, and then seemed to gather herself together. “I don’t think,” she said, “that it will always be easy for me. And that means it won’t always be easy for you. And I’m not the same person I was when we…” She trailed off.

“You are yourself,” Cassandra repeated, “whether or not you are the same, whether or not it is difficult. And I love you. We will manage.”

Trev shut her eyes, and Cassandra listened to the sound of her breathing, the sound of her _living_ , felt the warmth of her fingers. _We will manage, my love_.

After a little Trev opened her eyes again and said, “I love you. Whatever I am now, however I am, wherever I am, I love you, beyond all sense, all borders. I hope that you understand just how much, because I don’t think I can put it into words.”

“Yes,” said Cassandra, and Trev let out a breath and finally gave her a kind of smile.

“I’m still not sure of what I am,” she said ruefully. “I seem to be a collection of people I don’t understand. I’m still your lover. But I’m not really the Inquisitor, and I don’t seem to be anything else in particular. Heroes who go a-questing are supposed to achieve something, aren’t they? But it was all meaningless. I don’t know how to understand that.”

“You are still yourself,” Cassandra repeated.

“But it made no difference to anything. _I_ make no difference. Even as a lowly mercenary I made more of a difference than I do now.” She gave a crooked grin. “All right, it was not always a _good_ difference, but I did try.”

Cassandra lifted Trev’s hand and kissed it. “That is not true. You do make a difference. You are not seeing what is in front of you.”

“You can look me in the eyes and tell me that all of the things I did as a mercenary made a good difference?” said Trev derisively, but she did not pull her hand away.

“That is not what I meant, and you know it.”

Trev snorted.

“Trev, if you had not been there I would not have found the courage to approach my uncle. And had I not done that, I would not have written to him, or gone to him when you were not there. I am not certain that I can say that we are reconciled, but I—I think it is a beginning. I would not even have had a beginning without you.”

Trev looked down. “It would have happened. It would just have taken longer.”

“No,” said Cassandra. “I do not believe that it would have happened, because it was easier for it not to happen. I had been thinking about our relationship, yours and mine, and then I thought of my relationship with him, and how it had gone wrong. Things have gone wrong between us, but we have always found our way back to each other, because we have tried to understand each other. With Vestalus I had never tried. It was realizing that—” She stopped for a moment, then said, “When we were in Nevarra City and I told you what had passed between us, you did not try to defend him, or tell me that I was foolish or wrong-headed in holding a child’s grudge against him, though it was clearly true. Neither did you condemn him for the sake of my grudge when you met him; you treated him with great courtesy. But you came with me, you stood with me, and I knew that your love was mine no matter what happened, whether I was right or wrong in my feelings towards him, and that gave me strength. You tipped that balance.”

“That—” Trev stopped.

“That is what lovers do? Yes, some. But not always so honestly. And you tip the balance for others, without even noticing. Do you think that Carlyle would be here if you had not seen something in her, and told me? Do you think that Petros would have a new leg, a good leg, had you not spoken to Dagna? That others would not have the same benefits of the arm she made for you and the leg she made for him because you asked?”

“But—”

“You stood for the elves in Kirkwall against the young nobles. It caused trouble, yes, but it also made a difference for those elves; now they are better protected. In Antiva you helped Alvar’s family find peace, in Denerim you helped those who were cheated by the merchant, you helped evict the nobles who claimed its use from the Market. These are all little things, but they are not small things to those you helped.”

Trev was staring at her, frowning. “Do you keep lists of my activities in your head?”

“I love you and pay attention,” said Cassandra tartly. “Trev, you make choices and take actions every day. Some of your choices change lives. You are still the person you were; you only work with different tools. The scale is smaller, perhaps so small you do not notice it, but it is not small to those you help.”

Trev gave her a smile without much humour in it. “I suppose that it is arrogant to want to do more.”

“It is arrogant to think you do nothing.”

Trev blinked. “You can still surprise me with your honesty,” she said at last.

“Ugh,”said Cassandra. “I do not try to surprise you. I do not know how to do anything else.”

“Yes,” said Trev slowly. “You are yourself, and it is what you are. You always will be. You hold fast to the truth, no matter what.” She took a deep breath and stood. “Come. We’d better get to the feast before the best things are gone. And before the blueberry tarts disappear,” she said wickedly.

Cassandra frowned. “It is out of season for blueberry tarts.”

“Not if the cooks put some berries aside in the ice cellar specially,” said Trev cheerfully. “But I was not supposed to tell you, so you must promise to be surprised. Come on!”

*        *        *

Late that night, after the festivities were over, after the feast was only a memory and the tarts only a purple stain on fingers and the drink a lingering warmth, after the rituals and songs and laughter, after all the foolishness and the good wishes shared even between enemies, Cassandra and Trev lay in the great bed and made love.

 _She is truly here_ , thought Cassandra, as Trev’s lips traced a line along her breastbone with the utmost and most maddeningly concentrated attention to detail. _I do not think she will leave again. Not for a time, at least, and if she does leave she will come back. I know this now. But it is true what she said: she is not as she was. Not everything has been fixed, and it will be hard for her. It will be hard for me as well, sometimes_. Trev’s tongue moved on her, exploring very delicately, almost tentatively, and she shivered. _But it is better. And while she is here, I think that she will really_ be _here_.

She forgot about thinking then, until Trev pulled back for a little and said, “You clearly have not had so many tarts that you are entirely insensible and lethargic, despite telling me that you felt like a gartersnake that mistakenly swallowed a goat. You are wiggling far too much.”

“That is your fault,” said Cassandra, a little breathlessly. “And you know it perfectly well.”

“It’s an excellent way to work off a meal,” said Trev happily, “so it’s my duty. And I’m always happy to do my duty and oblige when required.” And then she turned her careful attention to the softest part of Cassandra’s thigh, and Cassandra’s mind went somewhere else entirely.

Later, as they lay wrapped together, Cassandra listened to her lover’s even breathing—almost but not quite a snore—and thought, _Not everything that is broken can be fixed. But not everything that is broken needs to be fixed in order to be worth something. We learn to make do, and find ways to use what we have, to hold on what is good, to defend ourselves from the things that would do us harm. And then perhaps we realize that what we have is not so broken after all._

_We watch for the paths that open to us, and try to choose the best one. We do the best we can. We love. It is enough._

**Author's Note:**

> If you know anything about traditional British folk music you may have recognized the title of this story, which informs one of its primary metaphors, though it doesn’t manifest clearly until Chapter 23. I’d realized that one underlying theme in all the Trev/Cassandra stories I’ve written is of holding on: refusing to give up when things are difficult, and constantly and stubbornly trying to find out if there is a way forward together. And that is what the ballad Tamlin is about: the lover changed by the fairy queen into all kinds of fearful creatures, the constancy and courage with which Fair Janet holds on until Tamlin is himself again. 
> 
> (Well, it’s part of what it’s about. I left out the pregnancy.)
> 
> Instead of a fairy there is a literal demon, at least towards the end, but there is also the demon of mental illness, the culmination of years of stress and trauma, that change Trev into something unrecognizable to herself and others.  
> It seemed to me that by the disbanding of the Inquisition, Trev would be badly disturbed, and not just because of the loss of her hand. I see her as having coped for a very long time, and now becoming unable to do so. Cassandra would not find the changes so difficult, because her commitment to truth had always defined her and could continue to do so. (Cassandra’s backstory as I see it, which informs her encounters with her uncle, is explained in “[The Shield and the Flame](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5273555).)
> 
> And then I realized that it was also a story as much about letting go. Love over time changes, relationships change. Nothing is set in stone, nothing lasts, unchanging, and we have to deal with that over and over again. 
> 
> The name Carlyle is a memorial to a woman from my past who was kind and caring and who dealt with an enormous amount of shit that she did not deserve and died far, far too young. I don’t know why I suddenly remembered her so many years later, but I’m glad I did.
> 
> An enormous thank you to pericat, who helped with so many plot bunnies when I got stuck. She is an inexhaustible font of good ideas, and I couldn’t have written this without her. And thank you to my readers and commenters, who have given me so much encouragement. It means a lot.


End file.
